


The Blank Tapestry

by Linderosse



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, But he means well; really, Canon Compliant, Everything sucks and Everyone is sad, F/M, Feanor is a paranoid prick, Feanor rages at things beyond his control, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, M/M, Not crack; I promise, The Finweans invent a fantasy TV, character introspection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2019-12-18 15:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 35,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18252560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linderosse/pseuds/Linderosse
Summary: “Do not misunderstand me,” the Maia intoned. “This is not a kindness. You are still not allowed out of your room in the Halls of Mandos, nor will any of your kin be allowed in it. Take care not to cherish this gift overmuch, for as you will see, the blank tapestry is as much a curse as it is a blessing. Beware the histories it will reveal.”In which Feanor watches from the Halls of Mandos as his sons are driven to ruin.- A expanded retelling of the events of the Silmarillion from (dead) Feanor’s point of view- The one where the Finweans accidentally invent a TV using threads and music.- Despite what the previous statement might imply, this isnotcrackfic, I promise





	1. A Cold Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feanor is confined to his room by the Valar. Fortunately, he is given things to occupy himself with.

Exactly a day had passed since Feanor’s death and the Valar had already voted to place his spirit in solitary confinement.

Considering how they seemed to view him, Feanor could safely assume he was to be imprisoned here for an eternity. He raged, but to no avail, and his disembodied spirit could do nothing against Namo in the Vala’s own realm. The gray stone door to his cell slammed shut with an ominous thud.

Feanor paced the bare room, furious.

These blasted Valar had no idea the wonders he would have accomplished! Couldn’t Namo see that leaving the uneventful tranquility of Valinor would give the Noldor a chance to truly shine, to snatch revenge from the jaws of humiliation, to recover what was rightfully theirs—  _and what was rightfully his_?

No matter. It would be as he had said. Their deeds would be a matter of song for ages to come: This, at least, Feanor knew.

Day after day, his spirit lingered in the room with no windows, pride and anger festering with each passing moment. Having nothing else to do, he waited for a change.

* * *

The first time the door to his room opened, a Maia swept in and reached up to hang a large and intricate tapestry on the western wall. Feanor waited impatiently until the Maia left, then examined it, reluctantly curious. He recognized the style of the work at once.

His soul flickered as he confirmed his suspicions: the sigil at the corner was proof enough that this tapestry had been woven by Miriel Serinde, once Queen of the Noldor and Feanor’s own mother. Feanor’s fingers roved over the tapestry, ephemeral, as he marveled at the skill evident in the patterns. Though he objectively appreciated the artistry, a small part of him envied the threads that had felt the touch of Miriel’s hands, something Feanor himself could no longer remember.

Then Feanor begin to notice the subject matter of the artwork, and all other thoughts were extinguished in shock. His translucent hand slid down the wall and fell listless to his side, for the tapestry depicted...

A frigid wasteland, harsh blue-grey and barren in the darkness of night. On the starlit ice cowered a host of gray-clad figures, mired in shadow, frozen in time on the threads. A glance was enough to tell that this was no congenial environment. Further perusal revealed sorrow in excruciating detail. The people walked with tears and bowed heads, spirits and bodies visibly wasting away from want of food and rest. Corpses, even those of children, lay unburied on the ice behind them. Feanor felt sick to his stomach.

Wait. Was that…? Feanor took in a sharp, incorporeal breath, for at the head of the host was his half-brother Fingolfin. The threads that composed Feanor's half-brother drew him with dignity, pale and stern in the unforgiving starlight.

Now that Feanor was looking for them, he began to pick out familiar figures: Fingon half-turned to share a defiant grin with those behind him, Finrod placing a comforting hand on a bereaved woman’s shoulder, and Galadriel dragging him stubbornly ahead. Orodreth huddled near Angrod and Aegnor, and Lalwen’s arm lay steady around Aredhel as the latter cradled young Idril in her arms. Turgon stood hunched over a patch of broken ice, clutching strands of golden hair to his chest.

Unseen by the subjects of the tapestry, yet visible to the viewer, a slim blonde figure lay caught in the depths of water below the ice. Her face was frozen in a rictus of fear, with one hand stretched upwards to grasp at air and life that was now out of reach.

Lost in the viewing of this hellscape, Feanor thought of his own family: the people he loved most in all the world. He could not look away from the tapestry for a long time.

* * *

When the Maia next came to his cell, Feanor let out a low noise, almost a growl, and faced it squarely.

“Is this real?” he seethed, gesturing wildly at the tapestry. “Did that dimwit Nolofinwe truly attempt to follow me? Is he _crossing the Ice_?”

The answering voice was a deep rumble. “It is true.”

Feanor drew back, caught between shock and anger. “That— That's insane! The Helcaraxe is impassable; it would take decades to even—”

The Maia loomed over him, its voice like gravel. “Despite this, out of loyalty, he follows. Look closely upon their suffering, Feanaro. This is the consequence of the latest of your great sins, of the burning of the ships at Losgar. Look upon your kin, and _repent_!”

The power in that last sentence shook Feanor to his knees, but he surged up again, uncowed, and stalked over to fist one intangible hand in the robes of his equally intangible jailor, pulling the Maia’s face down to the height of his own.

“ _This_ was not what I intended!” Feanor ground out through clenched teeth. “I did not trust him, so I wished to preempt his betrayal. He was certainly not meant to— to cross the Ice to follow me!”

Hints of desperation and sorrow seeped into his voice unbidden.

“Send him a message; stop him! Tell him to turn back!”

The Maia simply shook him off.

“You have chosen to leave the protection of the Valar. The consequences of your decisions are your own. We will not interfere.”

Feanor opened his mouth to argue and was interrupted.

The Maia’s voice was static, mechanical in its lack of emotion. “Your life has ended, Curufinwe Feanaro, and you can no longer impact the realms of the living. Acknowledge your mistakes. Accept that _you are_ _dead._ ”

With a final glare, the Maia swept out. Feanor suddenly felt drained. He slumped against the Eastern wall, once again facing the dreadful work of art that adorned his cell. His gaze locked on his half-brother’s face twisted in pain on the tapestry.

“He was meant to go back to Tirion, back to Valinor.” Feanor said tonelessly to the empty room. “I may not have trusted him, but I wanted him to be able to go home.”

It made no difference. There was no one to hear but himself, and the horrors on the tapestry remained unchanged.

* * *

The next time the Maia came to his rooms it carried another tapestry.

This one, for some reason, was blank.

Formed entirely from white threads, the blank tapestry gleamed in the cell's harsh light as the Maia hung it up. The thing was large: it filled the entire east wall of Feanor's cell on its own. Though he had no real eyelids, Feanor found himself blinking at the tapestry's bright threads. After so many hours staring at only the muted colors of the dark ice and the grey stone of the room, this strange tapestry gleamed enough to be disconcerting, even annoying.

A quick, quiet staring match took place as both Feanor and the Maia dared the other to speak first. Temper rising, Feanor finally broke the silence.

“Well? What is this _for_?”

“Watch,” was the only response.

Suddenly, the blank tapestry was no longer blank. The threads in it seemed to split, breaking apart to reveal many colors twined together, glowing between the white. These miniscule colored threads then began to move around, weaving in and out of each other in patterns that gradually formed an image. Though the separate colors were still distinct when viewed up close, the composition of the color at one spot blurred together when Feanor took a step back. He saw with fascination that at a distance, the tapestry was now displaying an image in sharp and clear quality _._

What was more, the image _changed over time_ in a prescribed manner. Feanor realized at once that an action could be represented as a series of still images in rapid succession, and marveled at how the repeated instant reconfiguration of the threads emulated not only an image, but also movement.

When viewed from more than a few steps away, the blank tapestry showed him a gentle forest, complete with trees swaying in the breeze, birds flitting across the sky, and animals running past. The scene progressed at the pace of real time and appeared so vivid that Feanor could have been standing there himself.

His scientific curiosity eroded his anger as he inspected the threads.

“This is brilliant,” Feanor breathed, a hand brushing across the tapestry in the same reverent manner he had treated the other tapestry in his room. “Is this also… Was this also made by…?”

The answer was not entirely unexpected, but still something of a surprise. “Miriel Serinde, yes. She had the idea, formulated the theory, and wove the threads. They reflect events occurring anywhere in this world. As you might have gathered, the one who aided her in tuning the threads to dance to the Song of Arda was Lord Finwe, once King of the Noldor in Aman.”

At this, Feanor felt a part of him that had long been festering in sorrow and anger begin to, if not heal, then at least scab over.

“My father, Finwe. He is here then?" Feanor breathed. "Is… Is he alright?”

“He abides with your mother for now. They both send their regards as well as this gift. The Valar have judged that you will use the blank tapestry to view Beleriand and see firsthand the results of your actions.”

Feanor began to speak but was cut off by a wave of the Maia’s hand.

“Do not misunderstand me,” the Maia intoned. “This is not a kindness. You are still not allowed out of this room, nor will any of your kin be allowed in to visit. You will soon come to realize that the blank tapestry is more a curse than it is a gift. Beware the histories it will reveal.”

* * *

The image stayed focused on its original scene, a view into some nameless forest, for a long time. Though the scene itself was uninteresting, Feanor found the technology behind this tapestry to be novel indeed. As he watched it, his mind began to whir with possibilities. It was like the Palantir, but did not appear to require mental communication, for the threads were changing without any conscious input from Feanor. This tapestry also possessed a much larger view than the Palantir could offer. Though it seemed to only support one-way information transfer, it more than made up for that by working autonomously. Engineered so that the movement was powered by the Song of Arda… What a marvel this device was!

His wife Nerdanel would have loved such a thing. Perhaps he could give her one, if it was possible to procure another, and if she would still be willing to accept anything from him. At this point, neither of those events were very likely. Feanor sighed.

Of course, he’d also love to enhance this device; create something to improve the image or make it shine; maybe a configuration akin to a series of colored gemstones engineered to refract the light from the thread into continuous patterns, sampling from the most prominent colors underneath? Could not this cloth be combined with such a contraption to produce an even clearer, brighter image?

If he were to work on this, Feanor would no doubt collaborate with his sons. He pictured it: Curufin might be able to help with the required craftwork, and Feanor would ask Maglor’s aid in tuning the components to the Song of the World. Celegorm and the twins might know of materials to experiment with, and Caranthir would certainly be able to recreate the tapestry itself, if he could be allowed to converse with Miriel about her technique. And his eldest, Maedhros, may have seen something relevant in his research into synchronization…

Why was it so difficult to think?

Feanor frowned. Somehow, his ideas kept slipping away from him, darting through his mind and then back out again. It was easy enough to produce a thought, but it was incredibly difficult to catch all those thoughts and reign them in, which made it nigh impossible to consolidate them into one coherent idea.

It wasn’t his memory that was the problem: he could recall all events both before and after his death in adequate detail. It was something to do with death itself, and with this place.

Clearly the effect was intentional. Perhaps it was meant to encourage retrospection over invention, or maybe the mental block served some other, more nefarious purpose. Feanor got back to work, but within anther fifteen minutes, he felt another complex mix of thoughts grow large enough to fade from his mind.

Feanor found himself growing frustrated at his inability to create. It seemed he had no other choice than to allow his mind to amass new concepts in the dozens and let them hang as he remained incapable of formulating anything more complex.

Nothing new is born in the Halls, he remembered. Nothing new, whether it is life, or love, or an invention. His purpose, his skills, were useless here.

But what indeed was the point of a master craftsman without the ability to craft?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go!
> 
> This idea formed when I decided that Feanor was in dire need of a way to watch the events that occurred in Beleriand after he died. I debated with giving him one of the Palantiri, but those are supposed to allow two-way communication, require that you to know where you want to look, and are much more easily avoided: you just have to put the orb down and walk away. With a large screen, though, Feanor is almost forced to observe the consequences of his mistakes, and so I embarked upon a journey to give dead Feanor a TV.
> 
> Fortunately, Miriel’s skills with weaving provided me the perfect opportunity to create a fantasy television. As you may know, in LotR mythos, the world was created by the Song of the Ainur, and that song still exists in every object in the world. I envision that Song of Arda as a sort of ethereal music that the Valar, the Maiar, some very skilled elves, and maybe even a few humans can hear. Everyone’s actions continually affect the music, which represents the state of the world itself at each second, and over time, it plays out the symphony that Eru and the Ainur originally sang.
> 
> Essentially, The Song is a sort of continuously changing program state that some really proficient hackers can tap into and use for their own purposes: namely, redirecting a portion of its varying contents to appear on certain devices. Such as the Palantir, or in this case, the blank tapestry.
> 
> What better way is there to give Feanor some badly needed comeuppance than to have him witness his sons’ tortures using his dead mother’s invention?


	2. A Sound Contraption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feanor writes some stuff about the generation of auditory outputs. Invention is impossible in the Halls, so Feanor tries outsourcing production.

Feanor wasn’t quite sure how long it had been in Valinorean years. Less than five, surely. He did his best to avoid looking at the depiction of the Helcaraxe on the western wall, and this gave him no choice but to watch the forest through the blank tapestry.

He began measuring time by the mingling of the lights in the forest on the wall. The Valar had created something to replace the Trees, then. Hmph. Even through the tapestry, Feanor could tell that it wasn’t quite the same. The light of the Trees was almost entirely gone from the world, and would live on only in his Silmarils. These two new orbs in the sky were but a paltry replacement.

Hundreds of days counted in such a manner passed before the image suddenly shifted.

Feanor watched with fascination as the tapestry’s perspective panned over an expanse of forest, sped across a plain, and then finally settled to focus on the view through the front gates of a settlement, only a few years old by his expert eye. People wandered around, carrying out everyday tasks, and—

And yes, these were his people, _his own_ people, the people he had taken with him to Beleriand! His loyal followers, and here they were, still alive!

Feanor beamed. The skill that had gone into building the settlement was evident in the shaped walls and the yet-unfinished-but-promising water circulation system, the insulated materials and the fortifications around the perimeter. And there! That elegant construction upon the far tower, he was sure that was his son Curufin’s work!

The perspective did not move from its current position looking through the front entrance, but when anyone passed by the gates, they came within view. People crossed the camp carrying everything from materials to messages, laundry to lances. Feanor revelled in the sight. His people were alive and everything seemed fine, well organized; clearly, the camp was well run. There was a hesitant, slightly frantic air to everything, but wasn’t that normal when settling in a new world?

Soon enough, the Ambarussa came riding in through the gates and Feanor was treated to the first sight of any of his sons since he had died.

He had to restrain himself from calling out to them. They looked well. Their straight copper-red hair flowed behind their fair faces, cheeks and noses pale enough that their freckles stood out in stark contrast. Amrod’s burns had healed completely, although the scars still showed against his skin. They seemed to be conversing with each other as they dismounted and took care of their horses.

Feanor couldn’t, of course, hear what they said. The tapestry provided only an image, not sound. However, he _did_ notice that never once during their conversation did either of them smile.

They left his field of view, but the incongruity of their grim countenances weighed heavily on Feanor’s mind. A conversation without smiling would be nothing special for Caranthir, or maybe even Curufin, but the twins were cheerful by nature. Something was wrong. Hopefully it was something minor?

Over the next few weeks, Feanor had the opportunity to observe some of his other sons and his grandson as they passed the entrance of the town. Maglor and Curufin and Celebrimbor and Celegorm and Caranthir: they looked alright, thank goodness, but none of them smiled or laughed at all. Feanor’s own death had been quite a while ago: surely they were not still in mourning for him? Surely they were making plans to retrieve the Silmarils? And yet a voice in Feanor’s head kept up a steady litany that something was wrong, something was wrong, something was wrong…

Where was Maedhros?

After weeks of observation, Feanor hoped fervently that Maedhros had simply gone on an extended trip or something to that effect. The only other alternative must be that his wonderful eldest son was dead as well, and that was simply too much to bear.

* * *

It was a bit disappointing that he couldn’t hear what the people in the tapestry were saying.

Feanor had tried his best to piece the words together by reading their lips and extrapolating from their gestures, but when someone turned away from the viewport, anything they said was lost as well. It made actual comprehension elusive and the overall experience was infuriating.

Feanor soon became frustrated enough to attempt to do something about it.

The next time a Maia visited his room— he still wasn’t sure if it was the same one every time— Feanor asked for a pen and some parchment. If he couldn’t combine ideas to formulate entire working designs, at least he could write down a few concepts. Hopefully someone else could make use of them.

His ethereal hands made no sound as he wrote down everything he could think of that might be relevant to the desired product. He filled a fair number of papers with theories detailing the use of vibration in producing sound. Then he wrote another few on the modulation and processing of signals and frequencies, and then a few more on how jewels might be forged to produce vibration, and then a completely different set on how combinations of frequencies might be attuned to the music of Arda, as they had been in the blank tapestry.

With the right configuration of stones modulated to vibrate at certain frequencies……  Feanor’s train of thought was forcibly broken. That last concept apparently contained enough individual components to count as an independent creation, which was banned from the Halls. Curse this place and its spells.

At least his ideas were still flowing and he remembered everything he had known in life. Feanor was suddenly very thankful that he had briefly taken up research in musical science back when his second son had begun to show his talent for song. He’d left that line of study once Maglor had learned enough to continue with other, more specialized teachers, but the knowledge was incredibly useful now. Music was simply a particularly pleasing subset of all sounds, after all, and sounds were exactly what he was trying to generate here.

Feanor packaged his writings together in a completely random order— the environment wouldn’t even allow him to organize his papers— then sent the package off with the Maia with instructions to give it to a living smith, preferably his old teacher and father-in-law Mahtan. Though they’d had their differences recently, Mahtan was a decent man and would not shun an idea just because Feanor had come up with it. Hopefully.

But what if the Maia simply took his package and disposed of it? What if the Maia reported to Namo of the Halls, who could punish Feanor for his insolence? What if the thoughts on the papers were too fragmented, too difficult to put together? What if Namo decided not to allow communication between the dead and the living, and closed him off from all sources of information?

What if they decided to take away the blank tapestry? Feanor hadn’t realized how much he’d come to depend on those scant few sightings of his sons. He didn’t know what he’d do without that reliable, albeit somewhat sparse, inflow of knowledge.

His worries were for naught. In a few months, Feanor received two finely crafted metal pieces shaped into hexagonal prisms with inlaid carvings. Each prism was mostly hollow, and filled with intricate connections from one inset jewel to the other. Clusters of industrial-grade ruby gleamed in their configurations within the two prisms. When placed next to each other and connected to the tapestry, the song of the world filled all three objects and they resonated together.

For the first time in years, Feanor could hear the voices of his people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Questions? Praise, or constructive criticism? All are welcome, and greatly appreciated. Seriously, please let me know what you think! It’s messages from you that keep me motivated enough to finish a story, so thank you for reading!
> 
> Here, we address the problem of sound. I initially had Feanor, the prodigal linguist, figure out what people were saying by reading their lips and extrapolating from prior knowledge. This became difficult almost immediately, as I wanted him to listen to group conversations, where everyone talks over each other all the time and some people are facing away from the screen. Case in point: the next chapter, where multiple people will be arguing about something.
> 
> “What to do?” I thought to myself, brow furrowed, pacing the room as distractedly as a Feanorian whose Silmarils have been stolen. Then I remembered my classes on signals and systems, and I snapped my fingers, having lit upon an idea. The Song of Arda is, after all, a signal, and can easily be interpreted to carry auditory as well as visual information. If something were configured to vibrate at differing frequencies based on the input signal of the Song, well then, you’ve got yourself a fantasy sound system.
> 
> Unfortunately, Feanor can’t go making these things himself, so I brought about a third point: his connection to the outside world.
> 
> Why do the Maiar allow this? Well, it’s not just because they know he will suffer more now that he will be able to hear as well as see the tragic events unfold. I’d like to think Lord Namo isn’t that much of a sadist. Instead, its because they realize that Feanor has no other way to connect with people, and that complete isolation could be detrimental to his mental well-being (the Valar are currently in the process of learning that perhaps they don't know so much about elves after all). As they certainly still don’t want Feanor conversing with others in the Halls and either inciting them to rebellion or somehow getting killed a second time, they've decided they're alright with him inventing himself a set of speakers for his TV.


	3. A Difficult Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feanor watches his sons talk about a package they've received. Their discussion doesn't quite reach the conclusion he would have supported.

The next time Maglor entered the camp, the view shifted again, following him into a small building. The room Maglor entered was already occupied by the rest of Feanor’s sons, excluding Maedhros, and including Feanor’s young grandson Celebrimbor and the dog Huan.

The focus of the room shifted to Maglor as he entered. His siblings’ expressions ranged from dread to anger. Caranthir clenched and unclenched his fists. Young Celebrimbor threw a worried glance up at his father Curufin, who remained impassive though his face was abnormally pale.

Curufin glared at Maglor, annoyed. “What was so urgent that you had to call me here in the middle of a job at the forge? Couldn’t you have waited until—”

Maglor interrupted him by placing the package he had been carrying on the table. He stared emotionless at the wall.

“We received another message from Moringotto today.”

That effectively silenced all other conversations, and Feanor had just enough time to wonder why the Dark Lord Morgoth would be sending them packages before Maglor reached forward and tugged it open. Inside the wrapping, there was a box, and inside the box, there was…

A letter, a shock of red hair, and a swollen finger, severed at the upper joint.

The reaction was immediate. Everyone but Maglor took a step back, and Celebrimbor whimpered and buried his face in his father’s tunic. Curufin, though his expression resembled carved granite, pulled his son close in shaking arms and gently wound a hand through the child’s hair. Amrod and Amras both held tight to Caranthir, and Celegorm sagged wearily backwards to support himself on Huan. The gold circlet on Maglor’s head seemed to shimmer in the light of the crystal lamps on the ceiling as Maglor, unmoving, stared down at his brother’s severed finger.

Feanor didn’t need to read the letter to guess what had happened, and this— this was worse than anything he had imagined. Morgoth had the Silmarils _and_ Feanor’s _son._ It incited within him the same rage he had felt at his father’s death, but this was different, this was laced with unbearable guilt, for Feanor’s father had made his own decisions, but Feanor’s sons had always been his to protect. _Curse_ that putrescent slime Morgoth for stealing from Feanor _three separate times._ He would _not_ stand for this, _they would not stand for this—_

“We cannot allow this to continue!” It was Celegorm, slamming his hands on the central table, who finally spoke what was on Feanor’s mind. “They have kept our brother long enough, we _must_ get him back!”

With Maedhros gone, Maglor was the oldest. Though this gave him authority over his brothers, he remained silent, gaze fixed on the box. The letter from the package lay rolled up, tied with fine red silk ribbon. The finger had been jostled around in the opening of the package and was now leaking partially congealed blood.

“You’re a complete dimwit, Tyelkormo,” Caranthir muttered. “You saw what happened in the last skirmish. They crushed us. They’d do it again.”

“We’ve improved since then!” Celegorm hissed. He waved a hand at Curufin. “With Curvo’s new projectile weapons, our archers will be able to—”

Caranthir’s reply was scathing. “It won’t _matter_ what our archers can do if they’re outnumbered almost 100 to one. Honestly, Tyelkormo, do the _math_ ; it’s easy enough for people who aren’t as idiotic as you—”

Celegorm’s eyes narrowed, rage simmering. “Just because I don’t sit around in my cramped little tent putting numbers together all day—”

“It’s not about whether we _can_ win,” Amrod interrupted from the opposite side of the small room, healed burn scars gleaming dully in the lamp-light. “It’s about our brother’s life! We have to try! Nelyo is dying!”

“But if we’re defeated, even more of us will suffer,” Amras said in a near-whisper, casting a meaningful glance at his twin. “I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

Amrod placed a hand on Amras’ shoulder in apology, and the others quieted with glances at the burns covering Amrod’s right side. After all, the only one of them who couldn’t be blamed for _that_ was in Morgoth’s dungeons at the moment. Curufin broke the silence with a definitive huff.

“Tyelko’s right," Curufin said. "We will have to face Moringotto again, sooner or later, or have you forgotten father’s Oath? I’ll come up with something new in the forge. Good day.”

Curufin hoisted Celebrimbor up onto his hip, nodded at his brothers, and walked out. Celegorm scoffed and followed, with Huan bounding after him. Amrod and Amras left as well, each placing a hand on Maglor’s shoulder before exiting the building. Caranthir stayed behind for just a moment longer.

“Are— are you alright, Kano?”

Maglor didn’t respond, just nodded.

“If you need anything, or if you want to split some tasks with me, I wouldn’t mind.”

Maglor nodded again. He must have said something, very quietly, because Caranthir actually half-smiled in response and clapped his brother on the back before striding from the room.

Troubled and distracted, Maglor stared at the box for a bit longer before reaching inside to open the letter and read it. The letter was hidden from view, and Maglor let nothing show on his face as he scanned the document thoroughly, rolled the letter back up, then packed up the box. Feanor watched as his second son steeled himself, adopting an air of authority once more, then swept regally out of the building.

The tapestry stayed focused on the inside of the now empty room.

Feanor was… not shocked, really. Just mildly surprised. Caranthir had put up some good arguments towards caution, and without a thorough investigation of the settlement’s military records and resources, Feanor couldn’t be sure that his fourth son was wrong. It was true that losing was a big risk, and victory might be much less probable than he’d originally thought. However…

The others were correct. They had to be. There was _no possible way_ Feanor would simply allow his eldest son to be imprisoned, and certainly not by that repulsive creature that Feanor had staved off time and time again. They had no choice but to rain death upon this _abomination_ , who had taken Feanor’s father from him and would not stop stealing from the world at large.

That was, after all, why he had made the Oath. It was strong and binding, and it would support his sons as they gained their vengeance against the creature that had ruined all of their lives and _stolen his Silmarils_.

The Oath would act in his stead, and justice would no doubt soon prevail.

* * *

The six brothers, this time without little Celebrimbor, met again in the room the very next day, and Maglor announced that they would _not_ be moving to rescue Maedhros. Celegorm began shouting, frustration and pent up rage clouding his visage, but Maglor silenced him with a word. Caranthir nodded and Curufin shrugged. The twins were visibly arguing mind-to-mind. Maglor disbanded the meeting and its participants left; angry, unsatisfied, and unsure.

Only Feanor caught the hopeless look on Maglor’s face.

It wasn’t enough to stop Feanor from punching the tapestry in rage. Unfortunately, he was too angry to concentrate on existing in the material plane, and his ethereal fist simply phased through the tapestry and bounced off the walls. He didn’t even harm himself, let alone the tapestry, which took most of the satisfaction out of punching the thing in the first place.

How could they just leave Maedhros to die? If Feanor were still alive, he would have stormed Morgoth’s gates and laid his fortress to ruin...

 _That’s what you tried to do the first time,_ whispered his conscience.

“Well, yes, I might have failed then, but that wouldn’t stop me from trying again. Especially if they had Nelyafinwe! How could my sons leave their brother behind?”

 _Isn’t that exactly what you did to_ your _brother, Fingolfin? You abandoned him to the Ice._

“He— he was supposed to be able to go home! I thought he would sue for pardon from the Valar—”

 _Would they have simply let him return, after the kinslaying? Many of his people participated, including his son Fingon. They came to_ help _you. And you betrayed them._

“It was my half-brother’s own choice to take that path!”

_He had no other choice. You left him no other choice. Recognize that. Accept it._

“Oh, shut up!” Feanor told his conscience in a petulant tone, and turned deliberately toward the blank tapestry so that he could avoid looking at the depiction of the Ice hanging on the wall behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Questions? Praise, or constructive criticism? All are welcome, and greatly appreciated. Seriously, please let me know what you think! It’s messages from you that keep me motivated enough to finish a story, so thank you for reading!
> 
> Feanor’s conscience is great, and knows a lot more than it lets on.
> 
> Also, for convenience:  
> Tyelkormo - Celegorm  
> Curvo - Curufin  
> Nelyo - Maedhros
> 
> These are canon names/nicknames! Check out the History of Middle Earth, volume 12, for more info.
> 
> In any case, there isn’t too much to explain here, other than the letter that Morgoth sends the gang along with Maedhros’ severed finger. If you’re curious, it’s just a normal ransom letter. It kindly requests that Maglor swear never to attack Morgoth again and also perhaps turn himself in, in exchange for Maedhros’ freedom. I originally had Maglor read it to his brothers, but it took too long and didn’t add much, so that part was removed.


	4. A Fraught Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon and Maglor meet up and discuss life. Feanor is slightly bewildered at their ability to compromise.

Fingon, the poor boy, let absolutely all of his emotions show all the time. Though he was the oldest of Feanor’s nieces and nephews, and indeed older than all but two of Feanor’s sons, Fingon was earnest, and his thoughts and feelings were like an open book.

This was why even Feanor winced to watch the son of his greatest rival crumple in sorrow at the news of Maedhros’ capture.

Fingon had been sent to visit Maglor as an ambassador from Fingolfin’s people, who had just reached Beleriand. Maglor, wisely looking to avoid excessive animosity from members of the Feanorian camp, had suggested that they converse alone, perhaps while taking a pleasant walk in the forest outside the Feanorian camp. This was where Maglor had chosen to break the news.

Fingon, to his credit, rallied completely within a minute. The trees rustled around them as Fingon’s gaze came to rest on Maglor again, and he took a deep breath in.

“Well, what are we waiting for? I’ll let my father know, and we can mount an expedition to rescue him!”

Feanor hadn’t thought he would ever agree with Fingon, of all people. A strange look crossed Maglor’s face.

“We don’t have the strength.” Maglor said, at length. “What are your numbers, Findekano? How many regiments of able-bodied soldiers do you have?”

Fingon told him.

“So few!?” asked Maglor, shocked.

Fingon’s expression hardened, and now Feanor could see the effects of his experiences. Something had changed within his nephew, perhaps within everyone who had taken that treacherous route across the Ice.

“Of course. I’d like to see _your_ people do better, Makalaure, crossing a frigid hellscape the length of over a hundred thousand—”

“I— I must be missing something,” Maglor interrupted, brow furrowed. “I was under the impression that you sailed here from—”

“Sailed? On what, exactly, cousin? Ashes?”

Maglor flinched. “No. I am— aware that we… what I meant to say is, I thought the Teleri had perhaps given you—”

“And why would they give us anything, after what we did? No such options were available to kinslayers.”

Maglor’s voice shrunk to a whisper as the implications finally struck him. “You don’t mean to say… you’ve been crossing the Ice? All this time?”

Fingon was wreathed in cold anger, more than Feanor had ever seen him. It was as if tendrils of rage were reaching away from him, the frost crackling off of them to fall in sharp slices to the ground. Too furious to even speak, he just nodded sharply in response. Maglor swallowed, hard. He looked up to the sky, breathed in through his nose. Then he looked around them as if to make sure no one else was watching, that they were far enough from camp. It was only then that Feanor noticed the tears dripping down Maglor’s face.

It had been centuries since Feanor had seen any of his older sons cry. He was loath to admit it, but in this situation, he wouldn’t have known what to do.

But Fingon clearly did. A sharp breath, and then the younger elf’s anger melted from him and, so fast it looked instinctual, he stepped out to pull Maglor into a tight hug. Maglor didn’t have to bend down too far to cry into Fingon’s shoulder.

“It’s hopeless, Findekano,” Maglor choked out. “Nelyo’s gone, and no army can defeat Moringotto, and my father’s dead, and it’s all I can do to keep my people stable and keep my brothers from killing each other. I don’t want to be king. I never wanted to be king, and I can’t keep dealing with all of this—”

Fingon’s voice was youthful but strong. “You can keep trying, at least. That’s all it takes to succeed.”

“I’m not so sure of that anymore,” Maglor said, muffled, into Fingon's shoulder.

Warring emotions contested on Fingon’s face. Minutes passed in near silence, and then...

“I forgive you.”

Maglor let out a stilted laugh. “Oh, Findekano. You’ve always had too much compassion for your own good. You can’t go about forgiving me already; I haven’t done anything to deserve it.”

“It doesn’t matter.” The more Fingon spoke, the more confident he sounded. “I forgive you for burning the ships and abandoning us to the Ice. I forgive you, and your younger brothers, and Nelyo, and even—”

Feanor wondered if that statement was meant to extend to him as well, but Maglor interrupted Fingon before Feanor could find out.

“You don’t have to forgive Nelyo.”

That drew Fingon up short, and he frowned.

“If you mean to imply that he doesn’t need my forgiveness because he’s dead, then I don’t believe it.”

Maglor shook his head vehemently. “You misunderstand me."

He stopped and cleared his throat.

“You don’t need to forgive him because he does not share our guilt. Nelyafinwe Maitimo did not burn the ships. He stood aside. He even argued with _father_ about it on your behalf. The look on his face... I think he wanted to grab a ship and come to your aid at once, but... he knew we needed him. That was probably the only reason he stayed. Well, that and the Oath. And what happened— what was happening— to Pityo."

“Oh,” said Fingon, rather unintelligently.

"But he called you by name, Findekano," Maglor continued in a rush. "He spoke of you and your valor, and demanded that the ships be sent back for you. It didn’t make a difference; father simply brushed him aside. He was furious at father, worried for all of you, and disappointed in all of us. When he realized he couldn’t stop us, he refused to light a torch. He stood aside.”

They stood there for quite a long time, Maglor lost in memories while Fingon’s mind whirled with the information.

Those words brought that day back to the forefront of Feanor’s mind. He’d almost come to blows with his eldest son, which was wildly uncommon, if not for him, then for Maedhros.

He’d been convinced that he had to burn the ships. Clearly, his half-brother Fingolfin’s purpose in bringing a larger host to Beleriand was to depose him as king. The look in Fingolfin’s eyes, the rumors, the coldness in his voice as he reluctantly swore his allegiance to Feanor: everything betrayed his true nature. Fingolfin had even begun adding an extra “finwe” at the beginning of his name, and everyone knew that was synonymous with kingship. It was almost like he was openly broadcasting his plan to usurp the throne. Maedhros shouldn't have spoken against him.

 _Or maybe our son was right, and your brother was just showing support for King Finwe, in light of his recent passing,_ said Feanor’s conscience. _Have you considered that, Feanaro?_

Feanor didn’t deign to respond to such an obviously flawed conclusion.

On the tapestry, Fingon let out a short derisive laugh and put a hand to his head. Maglor tilted his head in question.

“No. It’s just.” Fingon snorted. “I spent all that time picturing what I would say to you once I made it across the Ice. Sometimes I thought I’d punch you all in the face, one by one, and other times I missed you and Nelyo so much I was willing to beg you on my hands and knees not to abandon me again. But I never even imagined that Nelyo would be imprisoned, or that _you’d_ be the one crying on _me,_ or that Nelyo didn't burn the ships and didn’t mean to leave me behind—”

Fingon broke off and screwed his eyes shut, though this wasn't enough to stop a few tears from leaking through. Maglor chuckled kindly.

“Don’t you start crying now. We had a wonderful role reversal earlier; you’re going to mess it up.”

“Hah. How the tables have turned.” Fingon sniffed, using the edge of his worn tunic to dash the tears away.

Maglor laughed kindly. “Oh please, it’ll take more than that to fully turn the tables. Exactly _how_ many times did you come crying to me or Nelyo? It seemed you were _always_ running to us in tears for some reason or the other, shouting, ‘Kano, I can’t get this harp to sound good!’ or ‘Nelyo, I’ve broken Amil’s favorite pen!’ or ‘Kano, I fell down the cliff outside Tirion’s east quarter and my arm’s at a weird angle and it really hurts, what should I do!?’ Remember all of those?”

“Yes. Of course... and it’s wonderful to see you again, Kano.” Fingon admitted with a soft smile. That smile, Feanor mused, was the kind of smile that only absurdly optimistic people like Fingon were capable of producing.

Maglor smiled back in memory of their shared nickname. “You too, Kano.”

“Before I leave,” said Fingon, sobering up a bit. “I thought I’d inform you that I don’t think anyone else in my camp is willing to forgive you. And so that you don’t make a diplomatic mistake, I thought I’d warn you that— that Arakano fell in battle not long ago, and Turukano’s wife Elenwe passed away on the Ice.”

“That’s terrible! Is Itarille…?” Maglor asked.

“She’s alright.”

Maglor sighed, a mix of sorrow and relief.

“Although she’s a lot more quiet nowadays, I suppose,” Fingon continued.

“That’s a pity. I recall that she had a wonderful singing voice.”

“Remember that impromptu duet you both performed…”

“At the harvest festival, yes. She learned very quickly too. A bright girl.”

“Mm.”

After that, they spoke for a bit longer on logistical matters. Maglor offered to give up their physical camp and move to the other side of the lake, allowing Fingolfin’s people a chance to live in actual dwellings while they settled in. Though there wasn’t nearly enough housing for all of the Fingolfinians, it was a good start.

Fingon, recognizing the generousness of that offer, gave a little more than he got in the ensuing talks about a trade deal between the camps. Though the Feanorians had more soldiers, the Fingolfinian group contained more craftsmen of varying trades. They were lacking in resources at the moment, but this could be remedied in the span of only a few years. Maglor offered to help with resupplying, and Fingon agreed to share a decent portion of the profits. Further details were marked to be dealt with later in the presence of larger committees, but by the end of the talks, the core part of the proposed trading rights had been fleshed out.

Neither of them mentioned Maedhros again, but after the standard farewells, the cousins took leave of each other on friendly terms.

Feanor couldn’t help but wonder how that would have gone if it were him and Fingolfin in their sons’ stead. He might have raged at his brother, who would have closed himself off and retorted, and they probably wouldn’t even have reached a truce, let alone forgiven each other and moved on.

He'd never encouraged his eldest sons’ strange friendship with Fingon. Even now, he couldn’t help but wonder what Fingon was scheming.

They _had_ reached a beneficial truce, though. Perhaps, thought Feanor grudgingly, there _was_ something to be said for befriending Fingolfinians.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Questions? Praise, or constructive criticism? All are welcome, and greatly appreciated. Seriously, please let me know what you think! It’s messages from you that keep me motivated enough to finish a story, so thank you for reading!
> 
> For your convenience:  
> Nelyo/Nelyafinwe/Maitimo - Maedhros  
> Kano - Maglor (although I headcanon that Fingon used this nickname as well, though much more rarely)  
> Pityo - Amrod  
> Findekano - Fingon  
> Arakano - Argon  
> Turukano - Turgon  
> Itarille - Idril Celebrindal (Turgon’s daughter)
> 
> These are all still canon names/nicknames! Just like in the last chapter, check out the History of Middle Earth, volume 12, for more info.
> 
> The conversation about ‘adding an extra finwe to his name’ is because after King Finwe’s death, Nolofinwe (Feanor’s half-brother) changed his name to Finwenolofinwe, which is why it gets translated to Fingolfin in Sindarin, instead of just Golfin (which is a good thing, because that sounds a bit silly for the name of a high king).
> 
> Speculation on exactly why he did such a thing was probably varied and differed greatly depending on whether you supported the guy or not. Here, I give you Feanor’s interpretation, which, like most of the thoughts in his mind at that point in his life, was probably heavily influenced by paranoia.


	5. A Mental Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feanor remembers his attempts at practicing the elvish art of speaking mind-to-mind. The recollection encompasses some fluff between himself, his wife, and his twin sons.

The Halls made it easy to remember the past. Whenever the tapestry’s contents proved uninteresting, Feanor found himself swept away by a tide of reminiscence.

Even in life, Feanor hadn't been particularly skilled at speaking mind-to-mind. His family was easy enough to converse with out loud, and were certainly the closest to him. However, even _they_ found his mental voice overwhelming, in the scant few instances where Feanor was able to sustain a mental connection.

“It’s just silence for a bit...” Maedhros had noted when prompted to describe a mental conversation with Feanor. “...and then something snaps together and suddenly I can hear you, but your mental voice is _incredibly_ loud. I have to exert a substantial amount of control on the connection to make it comprehensible, and it's difficult to keep that up for extended periods of time. Sorry, father.”

Feanor’s wife, Nerdanel, was surprisingly adept at the mental arts, for one of the Noldor. Their youngest children, the twins, had inherited her skill. In an attempt to improve himself, Feanor had asked the three of them for advice once.

“Just be less controlling, dear,” Nerdanel had said while chiseling away at the beginnings of a marble sculpture that would be shaped into a waterfall. A large chunk fell onto the floor, knocking powder residue into the air. She coughed.

“You’re trying to force a connection to open, and then force it to stay open. Don’t force it. Just allow it to do so on its own.”

Amrod and Amras were playing on the floor, covered in white dust. One of them, presumably Amras, ran up to him and hugged him about the waist.

“Try talking to my mind!” Amras said, smiling, and then reached down to scoop up a handful of dust from the floor and smack it on Feanor’s robes.

Feanor sighed and raised an eyebrow at his son, who had begun happily painting Feanor’s clothing with marble dust. Frowning in concentration, he tried to speak to his son without his voice. A simple sentence would suffice for this trial.

“ _Telufinwe, please stop dirtying my robes,”_ Feanor sent.

It didn’t look like Amras heard him. Whether that was because he had failed to connect, or because his son was purposefully ignoring his command, Feanor wasn’t sure. He decided to change it up, and tried asking,

“ _Telufinwe, what are you doing?”_

This time, Amras winced and stepped back towards his twin, who rose to stand next to him.

“Sorry, dad. I didn’t know it bothered you that much. I’ll stop.”

Feanor realized that he’d screwed up. What had been meant as a polite question had instead come across as an angry scolding. He sighed again.

“I didn’t mean to shout. That volume was unintentional, I assure you. I apologize.”

Something in his voice must have been recognizably sad, because Nerdanel put her tools down with a clatter and came over to him. Feanor let his wife’s hands guide him to sit cross-legged on the ground, and didn’t protest when the twins settled themselves around him, still playing with the marble pieces and residue on the floor. His wife sat in the dust as well, facing him.

“Relinquish control, Feanaro. Don’t plan out how to connect or what you’re going to say. Just… let your heart reach out to us.”

Feanor closed his eyes again and tried deliberately reaching for Amras’ mind. This proved difficult, and he felt the connection elude him over and over again.

Nerdanel had told him to stop thinking about it so much and just feel. It was worth a shot, Feanor admitted to himself, so he complied, and let go of his control.

Seconds passed with no change.

And suddenly he found himself connected to all three of them, his wife and both the twins at once. It was a warm feeling, tinged with happiness and slight surprise. But his hold on the connection was faltering and he didn’t have much time left. He hadn’t thought about what to convey in this message so he took his wife’s advice again, screwed his eyes shut, and allowed himself to say the first thing that came to him,

“ _Nerdanel, Pityo, Telvo, I love you. Thank you so much for being mine.”_

He snapped his eyes open to find them staring at him in various stages of open astonishment. The twins broke out of it first, and simultaneously turned to throw their arms around him, small hands clutching him tightly. Nerdanel blinked, and then she too rushed forward on her knees to envelop all of them in a warm hug, and now Feanor was the one who felt overwhelmed by all this love and affection, and sometimes he felt he wasn’t built for this but other times it was all he’d ever wanted…

“I take it the volume was alright?” Feanor asked, somewhat breathless. He spoke quickly, partly to break up the hug, which was becoming uncomfortable.

As expected, his family took the hint and drew back. Amrod pulled Amras up and they ran off to play tag amongst Nerdanel’s stone blocks. Nerdanel remained sitting in front of him.

“The volume was fine,” she said kindly. “It might be because you’ve finally learned, or it might be a side effect of speaking to three people at once; I don’t know which. But you’ve improved, and if you practice more…”

“Perhaps later,” Feanor said, climbing to his feet. “Thank you for your advice.”

He turned to leave the room, but stopped when Nerdanel wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing herself against him, her forehead touching just between his shoulder blades.

“Just a second,” Nerdanel whispered out loud, and then—

“ _I love you too,”_ said her voice inside Feanor’s mind. “ _No matter what happens, I’ll always love you. I want you to know that.”_

Feanor should have responded, should have assured her that his love was eternal as well. But he had far exceeded his ability to handle emotional statements for the day, so all he did instead was gently extricate himself from her hold. He didn’t even turn to look at her again as he left.

Back in the Halls of Mandos, staring at the empty northern wall of his cell, Feanor felt a wave of regret, many times more stronger than in life, wash over him. He and Nerdanel had split up decades ago, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t love her still. She had been his patience and voice of reason, his guidance in a confusing world. He should have told her that more often.

He hoped she was happy, wherever she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Questions? Praise, or constructive criticism? All are welcome, and greatly appreciated: It’s messages from you that keep me motivated enough to finish a story. Thank you for reading!
> 
> For your convenience:  
> Feanaro - Feanor  
> Telufinwe/Telvo: Amras  
> Pityo: Amrod
> 
> These names/nicknames are canon, as is the ability of elves to speak mind to mind, which was called osanwe. For a fun example, check out the end of Lord of the Rings, where Elrond, Galadriel, Gandalf, and Celeborn are said to be standing very still and not talking, but still having a full conversation in their minds. More info about that is in an essay called Osanwe-kenta; give it a read if you’re interested.
> 
> Feanor wasn’t perfect at everything. I think the mental arts and emotional intelligence are areas in which he struggled. These two areas, by the way, are not unconnected, and I think a lack of effort and understanding in the latter would easily lead to a deficiency in the former.
> 
> This is not to say that Feanor doesn’t love his family; he does, and very strongly too. He’s just slightly incapable of showing it. Then his priorities shifted when Melkor started meddling with his mental state, which caused him to become even worse at showing his affection. I can sympathize with that.
> 
> WARNING: The next chapter will have a paragraph or so of a moderately graphic description of injuries. Please skip over the lines mentioned at the top of the next chapter if you might find this triggering.


	6. A Remote Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Feanor gets to see the son that he hasn’t seen yet. Things are worse than he thought.
> 
> WARNING: There is about one paragraph or so of a graphic description of injuries in this chapter. If you might find this triggering, skip from the line beginning, “In the center of the view...” to the line beginning “Only the rough copper-red hair…”

“Show me Nelyafinwe,” Feanor commanded the tapestry.

Nothing happened.

Feanor held up his newest outsourced invention, a thin rectanglular prism about the size of his hand, dark facets gleaming dully in the cell’s diffused light. It was made of a similar material to the one used for the Palantir, which meant that he’d had to give up some of his secrets to enable his mentor to create the device. The sacrifice would, hopefully, be worth it.

In truth, Feanor was in high spirits at the moment. Along with his latest research notes about mental transference that had been the source of this newest invention, Feanor had also sent a letter to his father-in-law Mahtan asking if Nerdanel was alright. He didn’t apologize— after all, he had nothing to apologize for— but he did mention that he had missed Nerdanel dearly.

When the rectangular device arrived, it came with a letter of reply hidden in the documentation. The letter was unfortunately from Mahtan, not Nerdanel. Though this indicated that Nerdanel was unwilling to write to him, the letter itself stated that she missed him, and that sent such a thrill to Feanor’s heart that he was still feeling it, an hour later.

In any case, now that he had received the device, it was time to try it out.

A sense of apprehension formed within Feanor’s spirit as he concentrated on the rectangular prism, willing it to change the view of the tapestry. However, the threads just shimmered once, then returned to their places.

Feanor scowled down at the device. It was supposed to allow him to connect his own mental essence with the tapestry and thereby guide the tapestry to refocus its viewing screen on another subject. Ideally, he would be able to switch between views of all of his sons in this manner.

At the moment, the one he wanted to view most was his eldest, Maedhros. Feanor knew that Maedhros was being held prisoner in Angband, and his disembodied heart still burned at the atrocity of that capture with a fire that he no longer physically possessed. He longed to take to the field; to fight for the return of his son, but of course he couldn’t do that in his current state. Instead, being able to see him would have to suffice.

He tried to wrest the rectangular connector device from its passivity again and failed. A few more tries went by with nothing but a shimmer of the tapestry to reward him. After another few tries, the tapestry blanked out completely, all the threads winding themselves back up into a pure white cloth once more. From then on, nothing he did with the connector device seemed to produce any response in the tapestry at all.

It suddenly seemed like a wonderful idea to throw the stupid rectangle across the room.

He managed to restrain himself from going through with that thought, but it was a close call indeed. Feanor took a deep, non-existent breath and forced himself to calm down.

 _Relinquish control, Feanaro. Don’t plan everything out; just let it happen,_ said his conscience, in a voice that sounded remarkably like his wife’s. Once again, Feanor found himself inclined to bow to her will.

He closed his eyes and let his mind fall into a relaxed state, reaching out, but without force. Just as it had happened that first time all those years ago, so too did he now find himself connected to the device in his hand.

He opened his eyes and thought:

“ _Show me Nelyafinwe.”_

The threads on the tapestry began to shimmer weakly, but this time, the resonance continued, growing stronger. The patterns faded into recognizable shapes and the colors reappeared one by one as the view showed…

A sheer cliff, ashen gray and dark in turns. The tapestry had focused in close on a precipice near the top of a mountain range, and since the view was angled downwards, Feanor could see that this location was far above ground level. Though it was daytime and the brighter of the two orbs should have been visible in the sky, this area was surrounded by black fog and smoke in a darkness engineered to keep things hidden, which thinned out only reluctantly at these volatile heights.

In the center of the view, Feanor could see a figure, held fast to a cliffside by one hand, wrist encased in a dark metal manacle that had been haphazardly welded to the unforgiving rock of the precipice.

Feanor’s initial response was disgust. The figure was gaunt and emaciated, the outline of its bones clearly visible through its skin. Blood and pus leaked from numerous wounds to drip down the rock face, and half-healed scars criss-crossed its skeletal form. Sores had been allowed to fester on the figure’s torso, only to be carved over by a long blade. Welts left by chains were starkly visible on the figure’s legs, and a metal collar still covered its pale throat. Part of one finger had been severed from its right hand. Its eyes were closed, not in sleep or rest, which would have been problematic in itself, but screwed shut against continual pain. The erratic rise and fall of its chest spoke to the figure’s struggle to breathe, and any noises the figure made were quiet enough to be drowned out by the light whistle of the wind.

Only the rough copper-red hair on the figure gave Feanor any indication that this was his eldest son, Maedhros.

Feanor screamed.

The world shattered around him. To watch his son like this, to know that he had allowed this to happen and that there was _nothing he could do…_ He dropped the connector device and collapsed on his knees to the floor of his cell, clutching his shoulders against a sudden all-encompassing chill.

Memories swirled in his head of Maedhros, laughing as a child in Valinor, exploring the far reaches of Aman with the whole family, or exasperatedly dragging Maglor, Curufin, Nerdanel, or Feanor himself down to dinner when they became too lost in their creations. It all came so easily to Feanor’s mind: his son watching the stars from their backyard with Celegorm at his side, caring for the twins when they were sick in Formenos, sitting beside Feanor in his workshop, or lingering in the living room to explain a difficult mathematical theory to Caranthir with a patient grin as Nerdanel combed and braided his hair in preparation for his graduation speech, hair pins in her mouth and Maedhros trying to shrug into his overcoat while his mother yanked him down so she could reach his head properly, the warm firelight casting orange rays across their faces…

Feanor looked up, and saw his son again.

This... couldn’t be happening. But it was. And everything had changed, nothing would ever go back to the way it had been under the light of the Trees, and Feanor was starting to think that maybe  _he_ had caused some of this misfortune, perhaps there were things he could have done better, done differently, if only it could save his son from _this_ …

He could not bear to look at Maedhros anymore.

Feanor got up, sluggish, retrieved the device, and fumbled around with it until he could manage a tenuous connection, at which point he forced his mental voice to croak, “ _Show me Turkafinwe.”_

The tapestry obliged and switched to showing Feanor’s third son, who was currently on a hunting trip with a band of followers, collecting food and supplies for the camp.

Feanor was not paying attention, and eventually, the tapestry’s viewpoint remained focused on a section of the sparse forest while Celegorm’s band left it behind. Feanor didn’t even notice.

All he could think of was Maedhros, and how he had failed one of his sons completely.

Perhaps… If he had not rushed out, in that last battle under the stars where he had died; if he had instead listened to caution, and waited to gather his strength before forging ahead… Then perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps Feanor would still be alive, and Maedhros wouldn’t have been captured, and they would all be working together right now to retrieve the Silmarils. Maybe, just maybe, in that one instant, he could have made a better decision.

Feanor noticed offhand that his conscience had been unusually silent since he had seen Maedhros.

Better decisions notwithstanding, Feanor had no right to be repulsed by Maedhros’ appearance, not when Maedhros himself was suffering through it with no chance of reprieve. Feanor grabbed the rectangle again. Connecting was easier this time, and he steeled himself for his own next words.

“ _Show me... Nelyafinwe.”_

The tapestry shimmered and complied. Feanor stood resolute and watched his son suffer, and suffered silently alongside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Name Conversions:  
> Nelyafinwe - Maedhros  
> Turkafinwe - Celegorm  
> Feanaro - Feanor
> 
> What did you think? Any constructive criticisms, or things I'm doing well so far? All comments are welcome and very greatly appreciated, as it's your input that keeps me motivated enough to finish a story. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Graphic descriptions are difficult to get right.
> 
> An unrelated note on time: Feanor’s counts for hours and days and seconds are all as we would think they are, but when he speaks about years or decades or centuries, he is still using Valinorean years. The reason for this is that he simply hasn’t had a reason to know about the new measurement of years yet. He’ll probably only have a chance to figure that out at the Mereth Aderthad, so until then, measures of long periods of time will appear shorter than they actually are.
> 
> An unrelated note on names: I try to make it a point to have Feanor use his sons’ father-names (the ones that end in -finwe), and will likewise have Nerdanel use their mother-names. The brothers call each other by their father-name-inspired nicknames most of the time (Nelyo, Kano, and so on). Fingon refers to everyone using their nicknames as well, but most outsiders use either their full father names or their mother-names if they’re family.
> 
> In truth, this note on names will soon be irrelevant. Just a few more chapters, and the Noldor will all switch to their Sindarin names, and their original names will be used mostly just in flashbacks.
> 
> Edit: I wrote those last two sentences back when I planned to cap this story at 15 chapters. I have since discovered new fonts of inspiration, and I have decided to write what I want to write instead of cutting corners to fit everything into 15 chapters. As a result, this fic will be longer, it will be packed with a lot more references and details, and I think it flows much better as a result. Of course, this also means that the characters will continue to refer to each other with Quenyan names for a lot longer than I originally planned, and so that last little paragraph I wrote above has been proved incorrect. :)


	7. A Significant Altercation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparks fly as Celegorm meets Aredhel for the first time in decades. Unfortunately, these are not the good kind of sparks, and others are drawn into the ensuing fray.

Months passed, maybe even a year. Feanor kept his vigil over Maedhros on the cliff, although he made sure to spend some time with his other sons as well.

He watched as Celegorm discovered new locations and resources and returned to report about them. The twins began researching local medicine, talking to the Avari tribes in the area and learning what the flora and fauna of the region could do. Injuries were not uncommon in their growing settlement, and the two of them had a fair number of willing test subjects to practice on, including Amrod himself with his burn scars that still acted up at times. Most of the time, their cures worked well, and they gained skill easily.

Celebrimbor retreated to the forge for a few weeks and came out with a new sword that had a vein of blue crystal running through the hilt and down the middle of the flat edge of the blade. Getting the crystal to adhere to the metal without compromising the integrity of the sword itself had been a challenge for the boy. However, by the end, Celebrimbor was able to call light into the crystal and watch the sword blaze in his hands as if on fire.

“Father, look!”

Curufin was suitably impressed, although he was trying hard not to show it. He coughed and glanced away.

“Not bad. But have you considered the flexibility of the blade? A good blade should bend and not break. Your addition may have caused it to become too brittle.”

Celebrimbor’s smile dimmed, but he answered nonetheless.

“I’ve already accounted for that, sir! See here…”

Celebrimbor turned to look at his diagrams, talking rapidly. Only when his son was completely turned away from him did Curufin allow himself a warm smile.

The intensity of that expression blew Feanor away, because he _remembered_ that feeling, remembered that same expression on his own face watching Curufin when they had been younger. When had he stopped feeling that? He thought back through the last century and realized that he had only really been proud of his sons’ accomplishments, and never of his sons themselves. It was almost as if they were just possessions, or particularly talented acquaintances. When had that changed?

 _Why_ had that changed?

* * *

Caranthir and Maglor had a different agenda. Maglor had so far ruled the camp somewhat successfully with a silent but watchful eye. Now, he decided that it would be best if they could build cordial relations with the Fingolfinian camp across the lake. Caranthir had agreed, to some extent, but was primarily interested in making sure any potential trade deals were beneficial to the Feanorians as well. The two of them made trips to the opposite shore often, sometimes bringing others with them.

Trouble began almost immediately.

“Tyelkormo.” called a feminine voice, disdain evident in her every word.

Celegorm, who had accompanied them to the Fingolfinian camp this time, actually flinched. Maglor was holding a discussion with Fingolfin and Fingon in one of the larger buildings, and Celegorm and Caranthir were waiting for him in the eastern courtyard near the edge of camp.

“Hello, Irisse.”

She pulled no punches, stalking over to her older cousin and dragging him down to her level by the collar of his tunic.

“You absolute  _bastard._ You and your crazy family left us to the— I thought you were my _friend.”_

Celegorm looked vulnerable for just a split second before he gathered himself and sneered at her instead.

Feanor recognized this specific expression, but couldn't quite pinpoint why until— 

 _Oh look, it's your trademark sneer_ , said a familiar voice in his mind. 

Who was...? Ah, of course, how could he forget his conscience, back at it again with its incorrect conclusions.

_That's the sneer you use to hide your insecurities, along with thinly veiled insults tossed at all and sundry. Looks like your son is going to do the same._

Feanor frowned, annoyed.

“Hey, I don't— That's not why I—”

His conscience just laughed, although not unkindly.

Celegorm was still sneering, and now he retorted.

“I was your friend? Was I? I don’t recall ever hanging out with lowlifes like you. Must have been some other girl named Irisse.”

Aredhel yanked him closer by his tunic's collar, practically spitting into his face as she hissed, “ _Listen_ , you incorrigible dimwit, don’t be like this, just… apologize. And tell me  _why_ you all thought it would be a good idea to—”

Celegorm scoffed, trying ineffectually to pull himself away.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

Fire flashed in her normally light eyes and she stepped on his foot to hold him in place.

“ _Yes,_ Tyelkormo, you _do_ have to explain yourself to me. You owe that to me, after what I’ve been through because of you.”

Celegorm gritted his teeth, but Caranthir intervened.

“I can’t believe _I’m_ attempting diplomacy here,” Caranthir muttered to nobody in particular, before saying,

“Hey, Tyelko, Irisse. Give it a rest. This isn’t—”

Celegorm rounded on him. “Oh, shut _up,_  Moryo. Ever since we got here, you’ve been acting high and mighty for no reason at all. Go back to your corner, _red-face._ ”

Caranthir flushed and opened his mouth to speak again, but Celegorm had turned back to Aredhel, who was still pulling him down by the collar of his tunic.

“And you. I don’t owe you _anything_ ,” he said, and grabbed her hand to force her to let go...

Just as Turgon rounded the corner.

In a scant second, Turgon took in the scene, reached a not-incorrect but still slightly wrong conclusion, and rushed forward to yank Aredhel out of Celegorm’s grasp.

“Stay away from my sister!” he shouted loudly, and people heard and began to stop and watch. The murmurs of the gathering crowd were rather insidious in nature. Feanor could see where this was going, and it didn’t look like it would end well...

Aredhel was trying to explain angrily, and Caranthir was trying to explain loudly, but Celegorm beat them both for sheer volume and rage as he shouted,

“You idiot, I wasn’t touching her on purpose! Who would even _want_ to go near a bitch like her—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish as Aredhel dodged around her brother and landed a punch squarely on Celegorm’s nose. The woman had trained as a hunter for almost as long as Celegorm had. When she fought, she meant it. The resulting crack was widely audible, and blood spurted in currents down Celegorm’s mouth and chin.

Celegorm let out an animalistic growl and wiped his face, hackles rising. Then, in a flash, he grabbed at Aredhel’s dress, yanking her into his hold. Something in the dress tore, blood from his nose stained her white gown, and she shrieked, struggling…

Turgon drew his sword.

It didn’t matter that Celegorm and Aredhel had been best friends since only years after Aredhel’s birth. It didn’t matter that Celegorm had helped Aredhel learn how to shoot a bow, or that he had taught her how to ride a horse in the yard outside Feanor’s house, encouraging her to keep trying with an easy grin on his face, and laughing with her when she fell. It didn’t matter that they’d roughhoused like this, pulling at each other’s clothes and hair, sometimes even coming to blows, probably hundreds of times in the past.

Things had changed now.

So when Turgon drew his sword to defend his sister, Caranthir drew his to defend his brother.

Feanor watched with bated breath, hoping that neither Caranthir nor Celegorm would be hurt in the ensuing struggle, but also looking forward to a chance to score a point over those untrustworthy Fingolfinians...

Turgon swung at Celegorm, and Caranthir stepped in to knock the blade aside with his own. The clang of striking steel gave Aredhel the distraction she needed to stomp hard on Celegorm’s foot with her thick working boots, so that Celegorm grunted and shoved her away. She turned and got ready to punch him again, still furious, when—

“What’s going on here?!”

That was Fingon, slightly out of breath after running to the eastern courtyard from the camp’s meeting room.

“That oaf is harassing _our_ sister!” Turgon said, lifting his right arm to point at Celegorm. Unfortunately, he seemed to have forgotten that he still held a sword in that arm, and the tip of the sword almost scored a gash through Caranthir’s overcoat. Caranthir leapt out of the way and scowled darkly.

Fingon stepped neatly between Turgon and Caranthir, as if hardly even noticing that they had their swords drawn. He looked around.

“Tyelko’s the one with blood on his face,” Fingon pointed out. Although it was accurate, even _Feanor_ could tell that that comment was particularly undiplomatic, and Turgon paled to hear it.

“Whose side are you  _on,_ Findekano?” Turgon hissed.

Fingon backtracked quickly.

“No one’s! I’m not on anyone’s side! I just… don’t think we should be harming each other.”

“Tell that to _them._ ”

Celegorm sniffed, wiping his still-bleeding nose to the best of his abilities.

“I didn’  _do_ anythi’g to your precious sister, you prick.”

“You were pulling her somewhere—”

“I was tryi’g to ged ’er off of me!”

“You called her by… an uncouth title—”

“She _broke my ’ose!_ ”

“I wouldn’t have punched you if you didn’t deserve it, Tyelkormo.”

“All three of you need to shut up and just _listen_ to yourselves for a change!”

“Moryo, _stay ou’d of d’is_ , or I swear—”

“Okay, all of you, hey, perhaps some of us have done some things wrong here, but maybe we can all agree to forget it and just move on—”

Though Fingon meant well, this last comment did not seem to help matters, and the bickering continued, volume swelling until Celegorm, Turgon, Aredhel, and Caranthir were screaming at each other at the top of their lungs, the spectators around them conversing loudly in response.

Fingon looked defeated. All his energy seemed to have fled, and not much was left.

And then,

“WHAT is the meaning of this?!”

Fingolfin’s thunderous voice broke everyone out of their quarrels. Turgon looked slightly panicked. Fingon looked more than relieved.

“Father—” began Turgon.

“Father, it was nothing,” Fingon interjected lightly, with a smile directed at Turgon and Aredhel. “Just a slight altercation, and I’m sure my siblings are appropriately ashamed. Aren’t they?”

The siblings in question nodded, Turgon embarrassed and Aredhel unrepentant.

“Thank you, and we accept your apology,” said Maglor in as calming a tone as he could manage. He too had just rounded the corner, having finished his meeting with Fingolfin. The two of them had clearly heard the argument from afar and hurried over together.

"I believe our side has some apologizing to do as well," Maglor continued.

Feanor was _not_ a fan of that. “No!” he whispered ineffectively from his cell in the Halls, “You need not apologize to _Fingolfin,_ of all people. Don’t do it!”

 _Of course they should apologize_ , his conscience replied.

“My sons were harmed more in this confrontation than the other side,” Feanor pointed out. “It is the children of Fingolfin who need to apologize.”

_That doesn’t excuse our sons’ terrible behavior. Both parties must accept their wrongs._

“The Fingolfinians started this! They broke my son's nose!”

_It does not matter who started what. But if we are considering the beginning of things, remember who cast the first betrayal at Losgar._

Feanor went silent at that.

On the tapestry, Maglor’s soothing voice had managed to wring a half-hearted apology from his brothers, and he himself did his best to patch over the rest with Fingolfin.

As the Feanorians were leaving, Maglor cast a glance at Fingon. Feanor looked too, and found that something had changed again in his oldest nephew. The ice and the altercation here had stolen the fire from his eyes, but now it was, for some reason, back again, burning brighter than ever. What had changed? He hadn’t been like this five minutes ago. Maglor didn’t look like he knew what had caused it either.

The camps separated again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Anything I did well, or anything I can improve? Let me know what you have to say! After all, it’s comments from you that get me motivated enough to finish a story. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Name Conversions:  
> Irisse - Aredhel  
> Tyelkormo/Tyelko - Celegorm  
> Findekano - Fingon  
> Turukano - Turgon  
> Moryo - Caranthir
> 
> Wonder what Fingon’s thinking. Hope it’s something good :)
> 
> I love writing Feanorian arguments. There’s just so much they can argue about, and you can always count on one of them to say the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time. They all mean well, really, but they’re absolutely terrible at showing it, and all in different ways. Maedhros is too self-deprecating, Maglor’s too cautious, Celegorm’s too careless, and Caranthir’s too brash. Curufin is like Feanor in that he never saw much of a point in befriending others to begin with and is overly cold when he tries. The twins try their best to isolate themselves from the rest of the world, and even within their unbroken pairing, Amrod is rebellious and Amras is sensitive.
> 
> There are going to be a lot more Feanorian arguments coming up, which I’m definitely looking forward to, but it is to be noted that when all seven get together with a single purpose in mind, they work in tandem like a well-oiled machine and nothing can stop them.


	8. A Gray Morality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feanor chats with his Maia visitor about his eldest son. Meanwhile, some supplies are stolen from the Feanorian camp, and everyone is confused.

“ _Show me Nelyafinwe,_ ” he told the connector device, and it complied.

It had become something of a daily ritual. When the new yellow orb, which Feanor had gathered was called “the Sun,” rose fully into the sky, Feanor commanded the tapestry to take him to see Maedhros.

Early on, Feanor had found that locations on the cliffs of Angband, wreathed as they were in thick darkness, were almost impossible to see by night. By day, however, the darkness thinned and the uppermost reaches became pretty distinct to view. Even the ground beneath the cliffs was visible to some extent, though the darkness was more concentrated there.

Feanor watched his son, sorrow filling him once more. He had tried speaking to Maedhros more than once, both out loud and in his mind, but was predictably unable to do so. Some of the time, he liked to think that Maedhros could feel him watching and take comfort from Feanor’s spirit. Most of the time, he recognized that notion for what it was: a pathetic attempt at redemption. Talking to his son through the tapestry was an exercise in futility.

He did it anyway.

“Nelyo, I’m here. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have rushed forward during that battle. I should have waited, like you advised me to, and perhaps then I would be alive and you wouldn’t be suffering. I’m sorry.”

As he was speaking, a Maia entered Feanor’s cell. It occurred to Feanor that he should really ask it whether or not it was the same Maia as before, or if there were different Maiar visiting him wearing the same dull gray raiment. However, as usual, other inquiries came to mind first. Such as:

“Why are you in my room.” Irritation flowed off Feanor in waves. “What do you want.”

Feanor had begun to consider this periodical observance as somewhat sacred, and was a bit peeved at the interruption. This, combined with the fact that his son’s torment was still continuing on the tapestry behind him...

“You lose yourself in the viewing of the world, and thereby forget the passing of days,” the Maia intoned. “I informed you that I would be back in a year’s time. A year has indeed passed, and thus I return.”

Feanor was not in the mood for this, but a good argument never hurt anyone.

“I forgot nothing. It simply hasn’t been a year yet. I’ve been counting the days: you can’t fool me. Look.”

Feanor held up his records, written on scrap paper that the Maiar had given him earlier. The Maia bent down to look, confused. Then it turned back to Feanor, looking surprisingly… apologetic?

“I see. You were not informed that the reckoning of days and years has changed with the advent of the Sun. If you will listen, I can tell you of it. But first, I must ask:”

The Maia pointed to the tapestry with one gray-cloaked appendange. “Who… is that? Why is…”

Feanor was _so_ not in the mood for this. He let out a sharp laugh and gestured sardonically at his guest.

“Oh, of course, let me introduce you. This, on the wall here, is my eldest son, Nelyafinwe Maitimo. He is imprisoned on the cliffs of Angband. He suffers unending torment at the hands of the abomination that you and your kind set free. Nelyafinwe, please greet this kind Maia from the realm of Mandos. He hopes to be seeing you soon.”

Maedhros, of course, could not and did not respond.

The Maia glided closer to the tapestry, seeming almost entranced.

“ _That_ is your son?... I don’t understand. How did he get there, attached to the cliffside?”

“Well, he certainly didn’t hang himself on the wall," Feanor shot back. "Figure it out yourself, oh wise spirit.”

The Maia gazed at him uncomprehendingly, or perhaps it was simply asking for more information. Feanor sighed and elaborated.

“He was captured by Moringotto, the creature you call Melkor. The denizens of Angband had their fun with him, and now they’ve cast him aside.”

There was silence as the Maia processed this.

“What did your son do to provoke their wrath?”

Feanor couldn’t believe the Maiar could be so utterly stupid.

“Provoke their— you can’t think that would be necessary? The orcs do not need provocation to attack the inhabitants of Beleriand! The servants of the Dark Lord need no provocation to pillage and plunder innocent homes and take innocent lives! Moringotto needs no _provocation_ to torture my son, and so he has, with no repercussions! Look how my child suffers for it!”

By the end of that rant, Feanor was shouting. He took a deep breath in, and then continued with a quiet, shaking voice.

“My son did nothing wrong. He went to parley with Moringotto, and this was the result. His only crime was, I suppose, being my son, as the Dark Lord hates me more than most. But that is not Nelyafinwe’s fault, nor anyone’s.”

Another deep breath in, then out again.

“He deserves...  deserves none of this; he’s completely innocent, but there’s no way for me to _help him_.”

The Maia simply watched, for a few minutes longer. Then it said something to itself, softly, and swept out of the room without a backward glance.

It took Feanor a few seconds to piece together what the Maia said. Something about, “the proportion of punishment for a person’s sins…?”

Feanor didn’t know, and Feanor didn’t care. He went back to watching Maedhros, on the wall.

“Hello, Nelyo. I’m here. I’m sorry.”

* * *

“We’re missing exactly 24 bags of grain and 24 rations of assorted preserved food items from the cellar,” Caranthir reported at the next meeting of Feanor’s sons.

Everyone shuffled in their seats a bit.

“It might be a raid,” said Curufin.

“What?”

“A raid. From Fingolfin’s people. To steal our supplies.”

“That’s highly unlikely,” said Maglor, and at the same time, Caranthir added,

“It’s true that Fingolfin’s settlement was recently established, and that grain is one of the supplies they lack.”

“Why only 24?” asked Amras.

There was some more silence.

“It’s a nice, even number,” replied Amrod.

“It sounds like the amount of grain that would fit in a wagon. Like the wagons the Fingolfinians have been working on building recently,” said Caranthir.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t sound like something the Fingolfinians would do,” said Celegorm, and a few of his brothers turned to stare at him for the oddly supportive statement. He flushed lightly in embarrassment and continued.

“What I meant is, if they wanted to attack us, they’d probably just attack us outright. It doesn’t really help them to just use wagons to steal small portions of our supplies, especially if  _we’re_ going to find out quickly that supplies are missing and keep a watch out for more intruders.”

He paused, then asked, “We  _are_ going to do that, right? Place a watch on our supplies, now?”

“We already had a watch rotation,” noted Maglor. “I believe the Ambarussa were in charge of organizing that?”

“The rotation progressed normally, to the best of our knowledge,” said Amrod after a brief mental conversation with Amras.

“Then someone’s really good at sneaking around,” Celegorm grumbled.

“Or the watch rotation has been compromised,” Curufin pointed out. “If an intruder simply bribed the person on watch at the right time…”

“Well,” said Maglor. “This conversation won’t get any further until we gather some more information. I propose we conduct an inquiry tomorrow, and then reconvene at a later date. For now, let’s move on to other matters.”

The identity of the thief, however, loomed over the rest of the discussion, unresolved and ominous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any questions, criticisms, or things I can improve? Please let me know in the comments below! I love hearing from all of you: it’s a large part of why I continue to write, and helps me improve my writing. Thanks for reading!  
>   
> So why does Feanor say that Maedhros is completely innocent? Because Feanor, at this point, has not actually recognized the kinslaying at Alqualonde or the burning of the ships at Losgar as crimes. Give him some time, folks.  
>   
> Also, fun fact: I chose the number 24 partly because I like the number, and partly because the Elvish languages use a base 12 (duodecimal) counting system. When Amrod remarks that it’s a nice, even number, he’s not just saying it’s divisible by two; he’s also saying it’s a rounded number, like 20 or 30 would be for us.


	9. A Determined Intruder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone breaks into Maglor’s room while he’s asleep. Meanwhile, someone is going on a quest.

Feanor was never sure what to do when it was night in the outside world. He didn’t possess a body, and therefore couldn’t sleep in the physical sense. He couldn’t watch Maedhros, as the black fog was too dark to see through at night. The cell he was stuck in lacked any form of entertainment other than the paper he had procured from the Maiar, and the blank tapestry itself. There was also the depiction of the Helcaraxe on the opposite wall, but staring at that was hardly Feanor’s idea of a fun time.

Generally, nothing interesting happened in the Feanorian camp at night, but that’s where Feanor usually ended up. His sons looked a lot more peaceful in sleep. Especially Maglor, who spent his days trying his best to rule fairly, keep tensions down, and win the favor of his people. He was alright at it, maybe even enough to be considered skilled. However, it didn’t come naturally to him, as it did to some others. He was working hard at being a good ruler, and the constant stress was taking a toll on him.

Feanor watched his second son, who had suddenly had the burden of kingship thrust upon him, toss and turn in his sleep.

“He should be able to handle this,” thought Feanor, and then immediately afterwards, “He shouldn’t have to.”

A flicker appeared in the tapestry’s view and Feanor refocused his attention on it to see a figure, shrouded in darkness, sneaking around Maglor’s building towards the entrance. It flitted between windows like a thief, making its way closer and closer to the door.

Feanor’s heart leapt to his throat. If his son was killed like this, in his sleep while Feanor was unable to sound the alarm or alert him to the danger…

The thief made it to the door, and...

It was unlocked?! Curse Maglor and his forgetfulness, because Feanor _knew_ that building had locks installed; he had seen Curufin install them himself— and now as the figure crept closer Feanor could see that the intruder was wearing the colors of Fingolfin’s people! No doubt Feanor’s nefarious half-brother had sent the intruder here to slit Maglor’s throat in his sleep; Feanor wanted to shout something, anything, but what good would it do _,_ Maglor couldn’t hear him at all, and the intruder was _leaning over Maglor’s bed with an arm reaching out towards Maglor’s throat—_

But the intruder simply tapped Maglor on the chest and whispered, “Hey. Kano.”

Maglor, to his credit, woke up in an instant. In one fluid motion, he drew a blade from its sheath next to his bedside and swung it around to stop right beside the intruder’s throat. The intruder squeaked in a rather amusing fashion and stumbled back, accidentally knocking Maglor’s harp off his bedside table. It clattered to the ground, unharmed.

“Kano! It’s me!” the figure said in a loud whisper. “Put that down, will you?!”

Maglor blinked.

“Finno?”

He put the sword down and lit a lamp to reveal his cousin, dressed to travel with a pack slung over his shoulder. The moment of astonishment turned to righteous anger.

“Findekano, what are you _doing_ here?!”

“Relax. I’m not going to stay or anything. I’m heading off on a journey, and I just thought I’d tell you before I left.”

Maglor rubbed his eyes with one hand, the lamp still clutched in the other. Confusion lingered on his face as he asked, “What? Where are you going?”

“I’m going to rescue Nelyo!”

Maglor sat, frozen, for a second. Feanor, too, in his cell in the Halls of Mandos, froze in shock. Was he serious? Feanor had thought that Fingon’s comments about rescuing Maedhros were just talk. Was Fingon actually considering undertaking such a dangerous task?

Did he even stand a chance?

“...It’s the middle of the night,” Maglor said slowly. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Fingon put down the pack he’d been carrying. There was a fire blazing in his eyes.

“Because I’m leaving right now. Alone.”

Maglor almost dropped his lamp. “What!?... Finno that’s _insane._ You’re going to get killed, you have no idea—”

“It’s alright. This is something I must do.”

“What do you even mean by that? Findekano, _please_ , stop and think about this for just a second—”

“I _have_ thought about this. I’ve been doing nothing but thinking about this for the past few _years._ I have to go now.”

“—And you’re going _alone?_ At least take some soldiers, or _anyone_ really, with you as backup! You can’t just… just walk into the Dark Lord’s domain without any help and expect to escape unharmed!”

“Well, that’s the thing, see.” Fingon sat down on the edge of Maglor’s bed, and Maglor shifted to make room.

“I didn’t bother asking my father or my siblings to come with me. Father or Turukano would actively stop me, and Irisse doesn’t exactly have the best impression of you all anymore. I haven’t even told them that I’m leaving, although I did leave father a note on his bedside table.”

Fingon looked serious. “I can’t take any of your brothers with me either. I don’t know any of them well enough and we might not get along, which would compromise the mission. Besides, they’re not what I’m looking for. I need someone else who knows Nelyo better than anyone; someone else who would work with me and not against me and keep things in order when my ideas carry me off.”

He trailed off, and then finished in a rush.

“Makalaure, will you come with me to rescue Nelyo?”

There was almost a minute of full silence, and tension flowed into the room and squeezed the air between its claws and…

“Findekano. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Fingon sighed.

“I thought as much.”

Maglor reached out to Fingon, taking his arm.

“It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s not even because I’m too scared.” He looked away. “I mean— I _am_ scared of Angamando. Terrified, really. And it scares me even more to let you do this alone, but…

I’ve been placed in charge of this settlement and all the people in it, Findekano. I hate that burden. I wish I never had it. But now that I _do_ have it, I’ll do my best to serve my people to the end. That means I can’t just leave on a journey as dangerous as this one, even if… Even if it’s our only chance at getting Nelyo _out of there_. I— I’m sorry.”

Fingon smiled sadly and clapped Maglor on the shoulder.

“It’s alright! I knew you’d say no, really. You have responsibilities that I don’t have. I understand that.”

“I’m really sorry,” Maglor said again, and then paused as something seemed to occur to him.

“Hey, Finno? Are you the one who stole supplies from our storage yesterday?”

“What? No, that wasn’t me. I packed my bag with food from my own camp, and left a note there as well.”

Fingon did look genuinely confused and innocent, although Feanor still had his suspicions. After all, one could never truly know what those Fingolfinians were scheming.

Fingon hopped off the bed and shouldered his pack again. Maglor threw off his covers and stood as well. They made an odd pair, illuminated in the faint moonlight, one in nightclothes and the other in full travelling gear.

“Are you sure I can’t persuade you not to go, Findekano?” Maglor asked.

“You can’t. I’m going.”

“Then…” Suddenly, inspiration seemed to strike Maglor, and he reached for the harp that Fingon had accidentally knocked to the ground earlier.

“Here. Take this.”

Fingon accepted the gift with a raised eyebrow. “A harp?”

“It’s a good harp.” Maglor said, smiling.

“I mean, that’s fine and all, but… why would I need a harp?”

Maglor shrugged, and his smile grew.

“It’s a token of my support. And a memory of old times.”

Fingon laughed.

“Now you’re just making fun of me! You know how terrible I was at playing the harp. Even having _you_ as a teacher wasn't enough to improve my skills!”

Maglor chuckled as well, but then grew serious.

“I’m not making fun of you, Findekano. I respect your courage in choosing this. Besides, a harp and a song in the right hands can be a reliable weapon against the darkness.”

Maglor placed his hands on Fingon’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think you or I or anyone else has a chance of rescuing Nelyo. I wish we did. Except... I don’t know why, but something in me can’t help but retain a spark of hope for you and your journey. I really, _really_ hope you succeed.”

Fingon threw Maglor a smile, and it was _that_ smile. That overly optimistic, Fingon-brand smile that the boy kept pulling out of nowhere. Seriously, this much optimism should be illegal, Feanor groused.

“Thanks, Kano.” Fingon said. “That really means a lot to me.”

Fingon placed the harp in his pack and marched over to the door.

“I’ll see you once I find Nelyo!” he said. Then he waved once, and was gone.

Feanor was appalled. The fact that _Fingon_ , of all people, was attempting what Feanor had wanted this whole time, when none of Feanor’s sons had stepped up to the challenge; that was terrible.

And… reluctant as he was to admit it, the fact that his nephew— or rather, half-nephew— was going to walk blindly into the darkness with no chance of success on what really amounted to a suicide mission… well, that bothered Feanor more than he wanted to let on. He hoped Fingon would be alright. Maybe he’d even return without any serious injuries. There was no way he’d _actually_ retrieve Maedhros, of course. Feanor just hoped that Fingon wouldn’t get captured and strung up on the wall next to Maedhros.

It was killing Feanor all over again to know that Maedhros was suffering inescapable torture, and although Feanor hated and suspected Fingolfin and his sons, he'd never wish that fate on anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feanor has a heart in there, see? It’s going to grow three sizes by the end of this, and Feanor will be our very own Noldorin dead genius Grinch.  
>   
> Da da da daaaaa! Fingon got a *harp*!
> 
> I’ve been wanting to write this chapter for a long time. The idea of Fingon sneaking up on Maglor in the middle of the night to tell him about his journey has been with me for a while, as has the idea that Maglor gave him his questing harp. Feanor is skeptical, but I wish them the best. Good luck, Finno!
> 
> If you haven’t been able to tell already, I love all the characters of the Silmarillion, but the relationship that Maglor and Fingon have is one of my favorites. They’re good friends, but that friendship partially revolves around Maedhros, who isn’t here, so it’s a bit awkward for them. They’re trying their best to navigate that while in their respective positions, and both of them really just want Maedhros around again. The only difference is that Maglor is much too cautious to attempt something like what Fingon’s going to do. The fact that Maglor can’t even bring himself to try makes him a little envious of Fingon, although he still mostly believes that Fingon won’t succeed, and just wants Fingon to return safely.


	10. A Brother's Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turgon is angry, but the Feanorians, for once, help _de_ -escalate things. The supply thieves from earlier are identified and promptly ignored.

Turgon stalked into the Feanorian settlement the next morning, incensed. Almost immediately, he came across Caranthir and Amras conducting a storage inventory, and he stormed into the room, a tall flash of blue, gray, and black.

“What have you done with my brother!?” Turgon shouted, drawing curious stares from the room’s occupants.

Caranthir looked at Amras, who shrugged back.

“I… don’t know what you’re talking about.” Caranthir said.

Turgon’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Don’t you _dare_ play innocent with me. Findekano’s missing! He was last seen by our guards heading in this direction: there’s no doubt he came here. Tell me where he is!”

“Wait, hey, we honestly don’t know—”

Turgon stalked closer to them, something akin to madness in his eyes.

“Where are you keeping him!?”

Caranthir began to sound annoyed.

“Listen. We really don't have any idea what you’re talking about...”

Caranthir trailed off, because Turgon was no longer paying attention. Turgon’s eyes were closed and he was breathing hard, as if he’d run all the way here from the other side of the lake. He raised an arm to clutch the side of his forehead in a sharp, forceful motion.

“Whatever you’ve done with him, just _tell me, please,_ ” Turgon choked out. “I can’t…! I can’t lose _both_ of my brothers, _and_ my wife, when all of _you_ are— are…”

Turgon’s breath caught in his chest as he tried to speak. It was almost… pitiful? Caranthir drew back at the raw anger and hurt in Turgon’s voice. And Feanor himself was surprised when Amras moved forward, cautious, to place a steady hand on Turgon’s shoulder.

“We don’t know what’s happened to Findekano,” Amras said quietly, “but we’ll ask the others if they’ve heard anything. Moryo...?”

“Oh. Right, yeah. I’ll go get everyone,” Caranthir mumbled, and left at a run.

Feanor kept the tapestry’s focus on Amras, and watched amazed as his youngest son gently led Turgon to a seat and expertly calmed him down.

Caranthir came back in a few minutes with just Maglor, who had evidently told Caranthir enough to make him decide not to bring everyone else.

“Turukano!” Maglor said, a bit out of breath, and then proceeded to recount his meeting with Fingon the night before. Caranthir and Amras went back to work in the storage room. Feanor watched Maglor’s conversation, slightly pleased to see Turgon’s eyes widen comically when he was told just where his fool of a brother had gone.

“To… to the Dark Lord's—!? I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true.”

Turgon was shaking his head, hesitant, eyes still wide. In the lost and confused look on his face, Feanor saw not he adult that he had become, but the scared child that had stayed hidden behind Fingon’s robes at his first introduction to the palace court in Tirion.

That confusion now masked itself with anger.

“I don’t believe it! You’re lying!”

Maglor was trying to be patient, his expression looking remarkably similar to the one on Caranthir’s face not five minutes ago.

“Turukano, listen. I told you: Fingon said he left a note on your father’s bedside table—”

“I already _asked_ my father, and he said he didn’t know where Fingon was!”

“What? Really?” said Maglor, taken aback, and then unthinkingly, “Has he checked his bedside table?”

Caranthir, who was doing his best to work and not listen, hastily tried to cover up a laugh.

“I don’t know!” Turgon hissed. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter, because if Findekano left of his own free will, then why didn’t he _tell_ me he was going on such an _unbelievably idiotic trip_?”

Maglor’s patience finally ran out.

“Perhaps it’s because he knew you would react like this!”

Turgon stopped, then deflated, the anger draining out of him in one sharp moment. He looked at Amras, then Caranthir, and finally Maglor.

“I would have tried to stop him,” Turgon admitted, and something in his expression— the anger and hope and certainty and… something else— reminded Feanor of his own half-brother Fingolfin.

 _And the fondness,_ said his conscience. _That’s the feeling in his expression you’re not understanding, Feanaro. Fondness._

Maglor glanced at Caranthir and Amras, a flash of guilt gracing his features.

“I stopped my own brothers from going,” Maglor admitted to Turgon. “And I tried to stop Fingon as well, but it didn’t work, and… he just left, and I let him go.”

“I wish you’d stopped him.”

“I know,” Maglor said with a sigh. “But I didn’t, and now all we can do is wait and hope for our brothers to return.”

* * *

Over the next few days, Celegorm and Curufin conducted an inquiry on the stolen goods, and found that two members of the Feanorian settlement were suspiciously missing: they had been reported absent for the last few days without leave. The additional absence of a Feanorian transportation wagon and the rest of the two’s belongings made it clear that, for some reason, the two missing persons had struck out on their own.

Apparently one of them was Nerdanel’s distant relation: a cousin of a cousin, or something of that sort. Feanor could barely remember the guy, and he was pretty sure he had allowed him to join the Feanorians solely because of the familial connection. Clearly such tenuous ties had not been enough to _keep_ him with the Feanorians, now that tensions were rising faster than ever.

On the tapestry, Maglor began trying to discern the thieves’ destination, but Feanor had lost interest, preferring to dredge his memories for any indication of his distant relation’s character or personality.

 _I never liked that guy,_ said Feanor’s conscience.

“I don’t even remember him,” Feanor stated. “but I’m not surprised that he would betray us. After all, one can never trust one’s extended family.”

Feanor’s conscience had no response to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turgon really has it bad during his first few years in Beleriand. He loses his wife and his brother, and then thinks his other brother is dead too. No wonder he makes a hidden kingdom, promptly relocates, and then stays there for the rest of his days.
> 
> The supply thieves are actually part of one of my other larger running narratives, and are not going to feature too heavily in this story. The guy who is distantly related to Nerdanel also has the same reddish hair, and is going to make his way by accident to Doriath, where he will stay for a while because Thingol hasn’t figured out the that Feanorians are murderers yet. Then he’ll marry a Silvan elf, and move around, and have some kids. Much, much later, his granddaughter joins Thranduil’s guard in Mirkwood, and— you guessed it— the whole subplot about the supply thieves is just my explanation for why Tauriel has red hair. 
> 
> The abandonment of a distant relation makes a nice counterpoint to the Fingolfinians though, so here it is.


	11. A Forgiving Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon arrives at his destination. Feanor watches the ensuing exchange between his son and his son’s best friend.

Feanor couldn’t help but be a little curious as to what had become of Fingon. It was just a slight curiosity, of course. Merely a passing interest, nothing more. Certainly not _worry_ , or anything of that sort, because why would he care what happened to Fingolfin’s son?

All the same…

He grabbed the connector, consumed by a sudden impulse.

“ _Show me Findekano.”_

The tapestry fizzled and refocused to a blurred, green field with an overly fuzzy figure wearing blue in the center. The image shook and wavered, and was unfocused— as if the scene's visible light had not achieved its correct path to the receptor, and instead bent to converge far closer to the object. This held out for only a few seconds, then the threads shimmered and snapped back to what Feanor had been seeing before.

Feanor tried this again with Fingolfin, out of a different curiosity: to experiment with the connector. As expected, the connection was refused.

This was intriguing. It seemed his connector was not… strong enough to ensure a stable connection with anyone who was not his sons. What could he do to fix it? The waves of energy connecting his mind to the connector, and the responding waves emanating from the connector to the tapestry… could something be done about that signal? Could he amplify those waves?

Perhaps by forcing a continuous system of positive feedback… but that would only escalate the signal’s amplitude infinitely, leading back to his original problem of being too “loud” for anyone or anything to discern his meaning. He needed some way to regulate the amplifier, not just cause the volume to spiral out of control.

Then a negative feedback system, fed positive inputs when below a certain amount and negative when above. This would allow for a stable multiplicative increase in the signal volume, affected by the material’s resistance to mental transference. By routing the output of his connector to this system, he could…

Ah, there went his train of thought, sliced prematurely apart by the laws of Mandos. Feanor grabbed a paper and started to write. It would take him a few days to properly outline his theories.

But the very next day, everything changed.

* * *

It was early in the morning, red-orange rays dimly cutting through the swathes of black fog on the cliffs of Angband.

Feanor watched as Maedhros hung from the cliffs, shaking in the wind, choked coughs rattling in his broken chest. The tendons in his arm were clearly visible, strained and red, and his shoulder socket had long since overextended, twisting the entire appendage out of shape.

Maedhros had lost all energy, even to struggle or shift on the rock to a more comfortable position. When his eyes were open, they stared listlessly ahead. Most often, they were closed.

How it hurt to see him like this.

Suddenly— was Feanor imagining things?— a sound, a song, from a distance. It was faint, very faint, and barely audible even to Feanor. But it must have been there, because Maedhros could hear it. Feanor’s eldest son gave no reaction, no surprise or worry, but simply began to sing along, his cracked and broken voice tripping over even the simple notes.

The song grew closer, louder, and there was harp music accompanying it, and—

It was  _Fingon._

Feanor could hardly believe his eyes. Neither, it seemed, could Fingon, as he strode on the paths below the sheer cliffs, looked up to the source of his accompaniment, and saw Maedhros for the first time in 30 years.

The music stopped with a harsh clang as Fingon dropped Maglor’s harp in shock.

He whispered, “Nelyo?”

“Findekano,” said Maedhros. His voice was broken but his tone was light, although he hadn’t spoken at all for the entire time Feanor had been watching him.

“Hello, Findekano. How pleasant of you to visit.” His words were peppered with wracking coughs.

Fingon’s eyes shone with panic and sympathy.

“Oh no, _Nelyo._ I— I—”

“Yes,” continued Maedhros, still light and easy. “Very nice of you to come. But you can go now.”

“...What? No, I’m—”

“It’s always nice when you show up. I really do enjoy it, every time. What I _can’t_ handle is having to deal with you being gone again once I wake up. The loss is unbearable. So even if this is just a dream, do stay away. You can go back, if you’d like.”

All this was said conversationally, as if Maedhros were confiding in something because it didn’t matter, and it struck Feanor that the lack of reaction was not because Maedhros had expected a rescue and was prepared. Instead, it was because Maedhros had neverallowed himself toeven hope fora rescue, and could no longer believe in one when it occurred.

Fingon was looking around him frantically for a way to scale the cliffs. He had rushed forward to the base, a distance below where Maedhros was trapped, and was trying to find purchase on the smooth cliff face. Even Feanor could see that this wasn’t working, and Fingon swore under his breath as his pale hands scrabbled at the dark rock.

“Nelyo, you don’t understand,” Fingon said as he searched, haste ruining his calm demeanor and confusing his movements. “It’s me. I’m here. This is  _not_ a dream.” He gave up on scaling the rock face and swiveled around, furiously scanning the area around him for paths leading up. There were none, and he pounded the rock with his fists in frustration.

Maedhros sighed, somewhat distractedly.

“I’m glad it’s you here in my dreams, Findekano— I mean, fake Findekano. You sound _just_ like the real one, you know that? My memory recall has improved quite a lot, to produce such a realistic copy of you. But then again, you _were_ always my favorite. Your laughter, your intelligence and sociability and the way you interact with others: I loved it all so much. You were my best friend.”

Fingon had begun to pace around the bottom ledge, widening his search range around the point where Maedhros hung, still looking for a path up the cliff.

“I still _am_ your best friend! Nelyo, don’t speak in past tense as if we’re— as if you’re…!”

Maedhros laughed, and it was a dark sound.

“Thank you for the kind words, dream Findekano. Unfortunately, the _real_ Findekano no doubt despises me from the bottom of his heart. I led him to the first Kinslaying; convinced him through no intention of my own to kill at Alqualonde. Then I stood uselessly to the side as the ships to bear him across the sea were burned at Losgar. And what does it matter? Moringotto will no doubt tire of me soon enough and have me disposed of, once and for all. Or better yet, he might twist me into an orc! I’d make a perfect orc, you know. I’m already a murderer. It’s not much of a stretch.”

Fingon stopped his frantic search. He stumbled back a few paces and stared at his friend, eyes wide and pained.

“Nelyo, Nelyo, please, you _have_ to believe me. You have to let me help you. You have to believe I’m real.”

Maedhros’ mouth molded itself into a cracked smile.

“You want to prove to me that you’re real?”

“Yes! I’ll do anything you ask of me, Nelyo, I swear—”

“Don’t swear _._ Anyways, it's very simple.”

“What do you mean?”

“To prove you’re real. Simple.”

And Maedhros let his head tip back against the rock, gazing at the clouded stars above, and said,

“Kill me.”

There was silence. If Feanor still had a heart, it would have stopped right there.

“What are you saying?” Fingon whispered. “I’m not going to— I’m here to _save_ you.”

“Then do so. Save me from this whole world, Findekano. Kill me and release me so I can wake up and face my unending torment. Get it over with.”

Fingon stared at him in horror, silent. Maedhros continued.

“...And… on the off chance, if this _is_ the real world, and you’re really here, then… it's all the same to me. I would be more than happy to die by your hand, Finno.”

“No!”

“Please, listen. You’re not really here, of course. But if you were, and if you did kill me, you would not be counted a kinslayer for it. I am no longer the Nelyafinwe that you knew, am no longer your cousin and friend. Kill me. _Please_.”

“No…” Fingon shook his head, fiercely, even as tears began to drip slowly down his ashen face.

Maedhros used the last dregs of his energy to shift himself against the cliff. The metal collar around his neck clanked against the rock, and he gasped in pain, breath coming forth rapidly, irregular. Caught between the cliff and the air, between dreams and reality, between life and death, Maedhros resorted to begging.

“ _Please,_ Findekano. There’s nothing left of me. Even _you_ cannot reach me. Not even _you_ can save me. I want to die. It hurts. Everything hurts, please, Finno, _please end this._ ”

Fingon let out a sharp gasp, and Feanor could see that he was sobbing freely now. His hands shook as he fumbled with the straps on his bow, trying clumsily to release it, and…

Was he… was he going to shoot…?! Feanor felt himself move towards the tapestry, some unnamed emotion coiling within him. If Feanor were able, there would have been tears of anger on his own face as he growled,

“Don’t you _dare_  take my son’s life, not when you’ve gotten this far; not when...”

 _You were supposed to save him!_ completed Feanor’s conscience, and Feanor could do nothing but watch helplessly as Fingon, tears still streaming down his face, pulled his bowstring taut, arrow nocked and ready to fire.

“I… pray to Manwe, lord of the airs. O king to whom birds are dear, speed— speed now this feathered shaft and… and… please, recall some pity on the Noldor in their need!”

Fingon stumbled over his next words, as if he were choking them back even as he spoke.

“Russandol, I’m sorry!”

Maedhros closed his eyes and mouthed something. Only much later would Feanor realize that he had said, “Thank you.”

And Fingon’s arrow shot from his bow, aimed directly at Maedhros’ heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please, please leave me comments to let me know what I’m doing well and what I can improve. Comments from you are what motivate me to continue my journey in pursuit of skill in wordsmithing, and I really appreciate them. Thank you for reading!
> 
> It always struck me as a bit strange that Fingon prayed to Manwe, and Manwe suddenly decided to respond with no prior reasoning or warning. I’ve got a bit of reasoning for that coming up in the future.
> 
> This can’t really be classified as a cliffhanger because we all know what will happen next, but I’m afraid I just _have_ to make the pun at poor Maedhros’ expense. Therefore: here’s a cliffhanger ending, in multiple senses of the word. Stay tuned for more!


	12. A Fated Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help arrives, but all help comes at a cost. Fingon succeeds in his mission.

Fingon’s arrow sped unrelenting towards Feanor’s eldest son, and Feanor couldn’t help but let out a scream of fury, of pure unadulterated rage and perhaps also a healthy dose of fear.

His scream, however, was cut off almost immediately. The arrow shuddered in midair and was swept aside by a gust of wind. It fell to the ground with a sharp clink, and the source of the wind was revealed: a large, winged creature, barely visible through the dark fog, swooping in from the sky. It was headed straight for Fingon.

Fingon gave a strangled shout and fumbled for another arrow. Whether that arrow was meant to fend off this new enemy, or whether he wished to make one last desperate attempt at killing Maedhros before he too was captured; Feanor did not know.

For the winged creature flapped its wings once more, closer and stronger, and some of the black fog receded. Fingon’s dark braids flew wildly about his face as the creature landed, but his expression had changed and he made no move to attack.

It was one of Manwe’s eagles.

Fingon was clearly communicating with the eagle mentally, and Feanor watched in astonishment as the boy went from despairing to determined in less than a second. Fingon retrieved Maglor’s harp from the ground and shoved it into his bag before clambering up onto the eagle. They took off, speeding away to gain altitude then turning back, soaring up through the dense fog in loose circles. Higher and higher they rose, towards Feanor’s viewpoint and towards his son on the cliff.

A deranged laugh escaped Maedhros. “I knew this was a dream,” he whispered to himself, before shouting it out, loud enough for Fingon to hear.

The eagle darted forward and perched on the jagged edges of the cliff face right beside Maedhros’ broken form. Fingon knelt over Maedhros near the top of the eagle’s back, planting his left hand firmly on the rock and leaning forward to keep balance.

“This is _not_ a dream,” Fingon said, resolute, and he reached out with his free right hand to gently brush strands of hair away from Maedhros’ face.

Maedhros jerked away at the touch, breathing hard, a wild look rising in his eyes. Fingon drew back, and a flash of sorrow crossed his face, but he didn’t dwell on it, instead turning his attention to the crude shackle trapping Maedhros’ hand against the rock face. He drew his dagger and made a cursory attempt at breaking the metal handcuff, but it remained entirely unharmed. He frowned and struck it again, harder.

“I need to get… this… off… Is there a key for this or something?” Fingon began to inspect the shackle with his eyes and hands, probing it for vulnerabilities.

Feanor was doing the same, albeit without touch. His spirits sank as he realized that, in his— if he might say so himself— expert opinion, there was precisely nothing Fingon could do to release the shackle. A handcuff made to open and close might have been broken open by the clever application of a lockpick or other tools, but this…

This was Morgoth’s work. And Morgoth had no time or patience for complex mechanisms, but also possessed enough raw power to crush mountains. The Dark Foe hadn’t bothered with intricacies. Instead, he had chosen to simply weld a three-inch-thick slab of fortified metal around Maedhros’ wrist, and then melt the whole thing straight into the rock face. The design of the shackle itself showed that Morgoth had no intention of releasing Maedhros anytime soon.

There was no way to release the shackle. Nothing had changed. Maedhros was still trapped, and would be trapped forever.

Maedhros had clearly already realized this.

“Finno. Finno, there’s nothing you can do. It won’t come off. It’s melted— it’s almost a part of my hand. Just leave, please.”

“I am _not_ giving up on you now.” Fingon said through gritted teeth.

“Finno, get away from this place. Get as far away from me as you can. But before you do. Kill me. Make this stop.”

Fingon had actually stopped, and was thinking hard. The eagle shuffled its wings lightly, waiting.

It took only about a minute for Fingon to come to a conclusion. He said something to the eagle, and the eagle obliged, dropping just a bit lower on the cliff face. Fingon reached out, and, careful not to reopen Maedhros’ injuries, wrapped an arm around Maedhros’ torso. With his other hand, he drew his sword.

And without any further warning, he swung.

The strike severed Maedhros’ right hand completely, just below the wrist, under the metal shackle. Maedhros screamed. The sound sent a spike through Feanor’s chest, and Feanor watched as his son began to fall down the cliff face, almost in slow motion.

But Fingon was prepared. He followed through with his swing and then let go of the hilt, tossing his sword aside completely in favor of using both hands to catch Maedhros as fell. The sword bounced off the cliff face with a sharp clang, rolling to the path below, and then off that ledge and further down.

Fingon paid it no mind. He drew Maedhros onto the eagle’s back and tore strips from his own tunic into a makeshift tourniquet for Maedhros’ bleeding wrist. The haste with which he worked was matched only by the speed at which the eagle flapped its wings: once, twice, three times, and then shot off into the air.

 _“Follow Nelyafinwe!”_ Feanor shouted at his controller device both mentally and physically, and the viewpoint of the tapestry leapt upwards to keep pace with the eagle, breaking free of Angband's dense black fog within seconds.

Fingon had pulled Maedhros against him, shielding him from the force of the rushing air, and was saying something, although it was lost in the noise of the wind. The eagle swooped low, and Fingon clutched his burden closer to his chest. Judging from the lack of response, Maedhros was unconscious.

But Fingon had done it.

Maedhros was free.

* * *

To Feanor’s dismay, the eagle set itself down in front of the Fingolfinian settlement.

Fingon stepped down himself, then lowered Maedhros back into his arms. He spoke with the eagle telepathically for a brief moment, then bowed as low as he was able without shifting Maedhros. The eagle let out a piercing shriek and flew away at a speed almost faster than the eye could follow.

At this point, the residents of the Fingolfinian settlement had realized that something was up. Feanor’s dreaded half-brother and other assorted members of the population were assembling just outside the walls, curiosity compelling them to see what was going on.

Their surprise was substantial, to say the least.

The extent of the confusion on Fingolfin’s face alone might have caused Feanor to break into laughter, if the situation were not so dire. To Fingolfin’s credit, though, he took in the scene quickly and allowed himself only a moment of inactive astonishment before issuing orders to prepare a room in the healing quarters. The onlookers burst into a flurry of movement, either jumping to their assigned tasks, or dispersing, or the most common response: gathering excitedly around Fingon, who was still holding Maedhros in his arms.

Fingolfin stepped up to his son almost hesitantly, and flinched when he saw the ragged state Maedhros was in. But he disregarded the blood and dirt and dust in order to wrap his son in a hug, which Fingon leaned into gratefully with a sigh of his own. Feanor grudgingly noticed that the whole time, Fingolfin was mindful of Maedhros and his injuries.

“I’m _immensely_ relieved that you’ve returned safely, Findekano.”

It was Fingon’s turn to flinch. “Father. I’m sorry I just left without—”

Fingolfin cut him off, but not unkindly. “We can speak about this later. Wait here, I’ll see to it that a stretcher is brought out for Mait— hm. For Russandol.”

Fingolfin turned back into the settlement, and the crowd of onlookers took the opportunity to huddle closer around Fingon and Maedhros, spouting inanities.

Feanor wanted them to stay away from his son; these airheaded courtiers and vagabonds with no purpose in life other than to be near the latest gossip and spread it like wildfire. They could be _helping_ , but were instead jostling each other to get closer to Fingon, offering compliments and complaints and queries in rapid succession. Feanor would have hissed at them to _leave._ Fingon looked like he might be about to do the same.

Then two blond figures strode out through the gates. It had been years since he had seen them, so it took Feanor longer than it should have to realize that this was his _other_ half-brother’s eldest son, Finrod, and Finrod’s younger sister, Galadriel.

Finrod and Galadriel parted the crowd with ease. Even after their journey across the Ice, their hair shone the same silver gold as it always had in Valinor, and they walked with the same grace as ever. The same, stupidly easy grace…

Feanor scowled at Galadriel. That girl, almost the youngest of their extended relations, had always irritated Feanor to no end. She spoke against him at every occasion and suspected him of treachery at every turn with absolutely no justification whatsoever. The fact that she had the _gall_ to stand up to him was annoying enough. But the fact that she, the youngest daughter of Finwe’s youngest son, had presumed herself to be in a position of _any_ sort of authority against Feanor, heir to the throne: well, that was outright disturbing.

The scene on the tapestry was progressing, and Feanor let his attention return there.

“Findekano, you’re back!” Finrod’s voice rang out across the courtyard as he approached Fingon. “And you’ve brought Nelyo back as well! Is he alright?”

Finrod, at least, seemed to have grown a bit less concerned with his political standing. He turned to the crowd around them with a disapproving frown that still somehow managed to look graceful.

“You lot. Perhaps you should return to your duties? I’m sure my dear cousins are beyond tired, both of them, and desperately need rest.”

The crowd dispersed with reluctant glares, and Galadriel glided forward to address Fingon. Her voice was ridiculously ethereal. Feanor was inclined to think she spoke like that on purpose as part of a transparent ploy to get people to like her.

“The stretcher will be out shortly,” she said. “I’ll wait here with you and then go fetch Irisse to make sure you sleep afterwards, Finno.”

Fingon smiled ruefully. Finrod leaned in closer and continued.

“And while she waits with you, if you don’t mind, I can carry a message over to the other side of the lake. They need to know that Nelyo’s here. I’d prefer they learn that fact directly from us and not from potentially incorrect rumors."

Fingon nodded, distracted by the arrival of the stretcher for Maedhros. 

"Now, you and I," Finrod continued, "are perhaps the only ones with enough tact to _not_ cause a diplomatic incident when speaking with Feanorians. Normally, you would carry the message, but I doubt you’ll want to be separated from Nelyo at the moment, so that leaves me. Shall I go tell them?”

The healers of the Fingolfinian camp helped Fingon deposit Maedhros onto the stretcher and began carrying Maedhros back to the settlement. Fingon made to follow, then belatedly realized he hadn’t responded to Finrod at all. He sighed again.

“Thank you, Findarato. Tell Makalaure, at least, to come here, please. And tell him to hurry, because—”

His eyes flashed to Maedhros’ still form on the stretcher. Maedhros was barely breathing, and seemed to grow weaker with each passing moment. In that instant, and for the first time, Feanor understood his nephew Fingon completely.

Fingon took a deep breath in, let it out, and then left to follow the healers, with Galadriel trailing after him. Finrod sent a troubled glance back towards the settlement, then set off to prepare for his trip around the lake.

Other than the numerous drops of Maedhros’ blood soaking into the dirt, nothing remained in the Fingolfinian courtyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few more Quenyan names than usual in this chapter, so here’s a quick guide just in case:  
> Makalaure - Maglor  
> Nelyafinwe/Nelyo/Maitimo/Russandol - Maedhros  
> Findekano/Finno - Fingon  
> Irisse - Aredhel  
> Findarato - Finrod
> 
> Fingolfin doesn’t quite know what to call Maedhros. He certainly doesn’t want to call him Nelyafinwe, since that means “third Finwe,” and Feanor only named his eldest son that as a sort of middle finger at Fingolfin. I headcanon that Fingolfin normally just calls him Maitimo, which is a bit over-familiar because it’s his mother-name, but Maedhros and Fingolfin are okay with it because they both recognize that the name Nelyafinwe is an insult to Fingolfin.
> 
> However, the name Maitimo means “well-formed,” and Maedhros… isn’t anymore. So Fingolfin decides to stick to his son’s nickname for Maedhros, Russandol, which just means “red-haired,” and isn’t politically fraught or insulting in any way.
> 
> Fingolfin thinks too much about politics and decorum. This is both a blessing and a curse for him, poor guy.
> 
> Meanwhile, the Arafinweans are now in the story! Enter Finrod and Galadriel, golden boy and golden girl of the Silmarillion. The Arafinweans will continue to be important to some extent because I like them, but not that much because Feanor doesn’t really care about them. Except Galadriel- he hates Galadriel with a passion. I believe there was some text somewhere in the Tolkien-verse saying that Feanor and Galadriel were “unfriends forever.”
> 
> Barring the accidental similarity to anachronistic social media, I think the statement sums their relation up quite nicely.


	13. A Probable Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor hears that Fingon has returned. Fingon waits in the healing quarters and hopes fervently that Maedhros will be alright.

Annoyingly, the tapestry’s viewpoint stayed focused on the now-empty courtyard.

“ _Follow Findarato,”_ Feanor relayed to his connector device, but the screen simply blurred and refocused on the courtyard.

He groaned in dismay. Of course. Although he had written some papers that might lead to the creation of an amplifier for mental transference, he hadn’t been able to send them to Mahtan yet. As of now, it seemed he would only be able to view his sons, who were by nature most connected to his heart.

So much for following Finrod. Fortunately though, he knew where Finrod was going.

“Very well, then. _Show me Makalaure.”_

* * *

Maglor was currently meeting with the captain of his guard: a short, dark-haired woman named Arienwe who was famed for her skill with a lance. She’d been Maglor’s highest ranked soldier for at least two centuries, and had been a part of his personal guard for even longer than that. She and Maglor had always gotten along well.

Feanor, however, had never trusted her, and especially not since she had chosen to marry a Fingolfinian almost a century ago. Her husband was… a nephew of Fingolfin’s wife Anaire, if Feanor remembered correctly. The husband was nothing special, worked as a tailor, a bit timid. Terrible choice for a partner, if you asked Feanor.

Anyways, she was clearly a spy. He’d only allowed _her_ onto the ships because it was better to have a known spy in your midst than to fear the presence of an unknown one.

What was that saying of Rumil’s again? Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer? Yes, that was it. Perfectly applicable, wasn’t it?

Maglor and that woman were laughing about something together when Finrod burst in, not even bothering to knock.

“Makalaure, don’t panic,” Finrod said, which Feanor thought was a _terrible_ way to start a conversation.

Maglor stood up. “Findarato? What’s wrong?”

“Findekano’s back.”

“What?!”

“And even better, he brought Nelyo back with him. He rescued Nelyo from Angband, but Nelyo’s in terrible shape and he might not make it—”

“ _What?!_ I— I have to tell the others—”

Maglor made a beeline for the doorway, almost as if possessed, but Finrod stopped him.

“Makalaure, wait.”

Maglor turned, exuding impatience like nothing else. He stayed silent, but raised a haughty eyebrow as a sign for Finrod to continue. This was surprisingly tactless for someone like Maglor, Feanor mused.

“I don’t think you should get their hopes up,” Finrod said in a much quieter tone. “I know how I would feel under similar circumstances— how I _did_ feel when our youngest cousin Arakano died. It would have been so much worse to think there was some chance of saving him, and then to be forced to watch as that chance dwindled to nothing.”

Maglor’s frown softened. He just looked lost now, like a child trying his best to fill shoes that are far too big for him.

Finrod’s riding gear clinked in the silent room as he placed himself between Maglor and the doorway, still talking.

“As an older brother myself, I ask you: don’t inflict that on them. Wait just one day— maybe even part of one day. Go to Nelyo now instead. Don’t tell your brothers at the moment, and then... once the critical part is over, once it looks like Nelyo will survive, then return and share the news. For now, though, just come with me.”

Maglor nodded once, hesitantly, then again with conviction.

“Arienwe,” he said in passing as he approached the door, “I’m sorry for the interruption. It looks like we’ll have to continue this conversation at a different date.”

“Not a problem, sir. I wish Lord Nelyafinwe the best of luck in his recovery. I’m sure he’ll end up alright.”

And Maglor and Finrod lost no time in preparing to dash around to the Fingolfinian side of the lake.

* * *

“ _Show me Nelyafinwe,”_  Feanor thought at his controller device, and for the first time, he was _not_ shown the cliffs of Angband.

Instead, Maedhros lay on a stark white bed in the healing quarters of what used to be the Feanorian encampment and now belonged to the Fingolfinians. Healers rushed past in seemingly random directions, many of them tending to other patients but a large portion of them focused on Feanor’s eldest son.

He was fading.

Or at least, that seemed to be the general consensus in the room— that the blood loss and lack of nutrition and most of all, Maedhros’ shattered mental state— that all of it was too much, and he might be gone by the end of the day. Fingon visibly paled to hear that, and Feanor felt his disembodied heart tighten painfully in his non-existent chest.

Though Fingon tried his best to be helpful, the healers eventually attempted to shoo him out, partially out of concern for Fingon’s own well-being. Unfortunately for them, the commands of a healer had no effect on someone who had recently snuck in and out of Angband itself. Fingon just pulled up a chair in the corner of Maedhros’ room and sat there obstinately, watching everything through tired eyes.

As promised, Galadriel had tried to compel Fingon to rest, and then summoned Fingon’s sister Aredhel to do the same. This too had no effect on him. Galadriel and Aredhel, like the healers, eventually gave up on getting him to leave and returned to their business. Fingon stayed in the room.

Even Feanor had to admire the sheer magnitude of Noldorin stubbornness Fingon was displaying there.

Wait, what?

Had he just felt _pride?_  For a _Fingolfinian?_

...He had. There was no point in denying it, and there was even less point in denying the fact that Feanor owed his eldest nephew now, for doing what no one else had been capable of. Though Maedhros’ fate was still uncertain, the fact remained that Fingon had rescued Feanor’s son from Morgoth’s grasp, and Feanor was grudgingly but eternally grateful.

A perilous thought— no, an outright insulting thought entered his mind. Once it formed though, he was forced to consider it.

Would some of this have been averted… could some of this have been avoided if… if Feanor had perhaps decided not to burn the ships at Losgar?

He pictured it, and in his mind’s eye he relented to Maedhros’ pleas and sent a small party back with the ships. More of his people were dragged into the ocean’s depths and drowned by Uinen, or crushed against the crest of the tides by Osse, but enough survived to ferry Fingolfin’s people over the sea. He envisioned a world where Fingon reunited with Maedhros joyfully and Maedhros teased him for being late, as Curufin and Finrod discussed building locations with Turgon, and Celegorm rode out to scour the bright forests with Huan on one side and Aredhel on the other. Years passed in the vision, and this world’s Feanor carefully avoided his half-brother instead of openly displaying his rage, allowing peace to grow between the two divisions of the Noldor. Trade flourished. Maglor began holding singing lessons for Idril, which Turgon had always forbidden before. When Morgoth sent out a call to parley, both camps answered it together, as a united front, and if Maedhros was even captured at all, then he was rescued by his family in no time.

But it was not to be.

In this reality, Maedhros lay broken on the white sheets. In this reality, Maedhros’ breathing rattled in his chest, his skin almost pale enough to blend in with the cloth but for the dark web of wounds threaded through him.

And in this reality, Fingon stayed in the room not just out of concern for Maedhros, but also to keep an eye on the healers, making sure that none of them poisoned Maedhros or otherwise sabotaged his recovery out of spite for the burning of the ships that Maedhros hadn’t even committed in the first place.

Fingon could tell them that Maedhros stood aside, but it wouldn’t matter. They would hear it, and nod, and maybe even understand. But animosity was sunk deep into their hearts, and there were scars from the Ice that no apologies would heal. The rift between the Noldor had festered and cracked, and it would take more than just a few words to bridge that yawning chasm.

Perhaps Feanor had made more mistakes than he’d thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liked what I wrote? Hated this fic in its entirety? Feel free to let me know in the comments! I can’t stress this enough: it’s comments from readers like you that help me improve my writing and every word brightens my day. Thank you for reading, and hope you continue to enjoy!
> 
> I’ve got a lot of story threads planned out for the future, and the main issue is writing it all down fast enough. I always write a few chapters ahead before publishing, but still: the going is slow. I wish I could keep the quality of my writing consistent while improving my speed. Alas for me, there seems to be an almost exponential relationship between the two variables, and I must learn to give up one for the other. Balancing one’s time in a schedule, just like balancing one’s self on a tightrope, is a difficult skill, and I have yet to perfect either. Ah well. Such is the way of life.
> 
> Arienwe is an OC, yes, but rest assured that there will only be as many of those as are absolutely necessary for the introduction and characterization of the more important main characters of this story. Arienwe will become necessary here, but the focus will not linger on her for any longer than it should, I promise.
> 
> Meanwhile, Maedhros is free, and Feanor is learning about trust!
> 
> And Finrod is learning about skewed priorities, and Maglor is learning about keeping secrets from his family, and Maedhros is learning about being on the verge of death. Not all lessons are good lessons, unfortunately.
> 
> Will Maglor get there in time to help his brother? (Perhaps). Will everything truly be alright? (Probably not, because this is the Silmarillion). 
> 
> Stay tuned to find out, and see you next time on The Blank Tapestry!


	14. A Characteristic Discord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feanor contemplates the consequences of Maedhros losing a hand. Fingon and Maglor are drawn into a quarrel.

Maedhros’ right arm ended in a bloody stump.

Feanor looked down at his own right arm, and imagined it without his hand at the end. Willing his spirit into an insubstantial state, he stepped over to the southern wall and let his right hand phase through the stone, so that everything past his wrist was blocked from view. It was a disturbing sight, and he quickly drew his arm back.

In life, his hands had been one of his most prized possessions, ranked behind only his Silmarils and then his mind.

 _You cared about your Silmarils more than your own mind?_ , his conscience asked, incredulous.

An unnecessary tangent, but worth addressing.

“I can recover and heal from an injury to my mind,” Feanor said. “The Silmarils, however, once broken, can never be made again. Logically speaking, they’re a higher priority.”

There was a short pause.

_What is wrong with you, Feanaro?_

“Nothing at all. What I said was perfectly rational. It isn’t my fault that you don’t understand.”

His conscience grumbled something about faulty proofs and sculptures built on unsteady foundations. Feanor ignored it to continue his perusal of his hands.

Even in death, his hands were well-rendered. Whereas some parts of his ephemeral figure wisped and wavered like smoke, the depiction of Feanor’s hands almost always remained accurate. It was a reminder of how integral they had been to Feanor’s spirit.

The hands of a craftsman were used for making. For writing and diagramming, measuring and carrying, forging and refining: the use of one’s hands was invaluable. Without great accuracy, the art of creation would be bent and distorted, as would one’s end result.

Feanor couldn’t imagine himself without both hands, without the tools of a maker. And though Feanor's eldest son had never quite taken to the forge, Maedhros was a maker too. They all were, in one way or another. The loss of a hand was more than just the loss of flesh and the accompanying pain. Along with Maedhros’ hand, Fingon had also hacked away Maedhros’ skills: his ability to fight and draw and carry out basic tasks.

It was the price of freedom, and payment for something else, something far deeper, that wasn’t Maedhros’ fault at all.

_He will have to learn to live without it._

“I suppose he will. It’s… it’s only a hand.”

If his conscience had a body, it would be raising an eyebrow at him in exasperation.

 _I can hear what you’re thinking, you dimwit._ _There’s no use lying to me. You don’t think this is trivial._

A sigh escaped Feanor, a sound without breath in the cold gray halls.

“You’re correct. I don’t think this is trivial. Losing a hand...”

_...That’s the hand he raised to swear your Oath._

Feanor’s eyes flashed and he backtracked, defensive.

“And the Oath will carry him through this. He is _my_ son. He will be fine.”

His conscience sounded reproachful.

 _He may be your son, but he is not_ you. _Don’t make the mistake of judging him by your standards._

* * *

Fingon was waiting when Maglor arrived.

“I’m glad you made it,” Fingon said. He seemed exhausted.

Maglor wrung his hands, a nervous habit he’d had since he was a child.

“How is he?”

Fingon grimaced, expression stonelike.

“Our healers have informed us that the next few hours are critical. If he can survive those, then it’s likely he’ll recover. Otherwise…” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Never mind. Just follow me.”

Fingon led Maglor to the room where Maedhros lay. Maedhros looked even more like a corpse than before, Feanor thought worriedly.

Maglor stifled a gasp, and raised a hand to cover his mouth. He stood there like that for a long time, until Fingon gently pulled him away.

“Thank you,” Maglor finally whispered. What he was thanking Fingon for was obvious to all present.

“You’re welcome.” Fingon said, terse and intent.

Then he let out a sharp bark of laughter. “You know, that’s exactly what _he_ said, when I got there and saw him, and finally agreed to kill him.”

“He asked you to…?” Maglor’s normally strong voice had withered away to the softest of murmurs.

Fingon wasn’t looking at his cousins, either of them. “I almost went through with it, too, until the eagle arrived. I still don’t know if taking his hand was the right thing to do, but I don’t regret going to save him. I’ll _never_ regret that.”

Maglor nodded in the manner of one who doesn’t quite understand why they’re nodding at all.

Maedhros began to shudder on the bed. A quiet noise of alarm escaped Maglor, but before he could do more than flinch forwards in an effort to help, Fingon intercepted him. Fingon bent down to hold Maedhros’ shoulders as he shook, and perhaps spoke to him mentally as well. Within seconds, Maedhros stilled.

“He does that sometimes,” Fingon said, standing up again.

“I— Is there anything I can do to help?” Maglor asked, timid.

Fingon sighed.

“I don’t think so. I just thought you should be here with him, even if—” Fingon cut himself off with a shake of the head.

“Even if what?” Maglor asked.

A minute shake of Fingon’s head. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

“No, tell me,” Maglor continued to press, concerned. “Even if what?”

Fingon’s brow furrowed. “Nothing! Just forget it, alright? Go back to watching and waiting, like you always do.” His tone carried an edge to it now.

Maglor frowned, worry shot through with searing doubt.

“...What are you trying to say?” he asked, hesitant.

Fingon sat back down on his chair in the corner of the room. It scraped a little across the floor.

“You— you had the chance to help him. You could have done something, anything. You could have saved him from decades of this.”

Maglor navigated to stand in front of Fingon’s chair.

“You know why I couldn’t, Finno,” Maglor said. He was wringing his hands again.

Fingon let out a huff of breath.

“Sure. Responsibility, right? Responsibility kept you from joining me at a moment’s notice. Alright. It’s… it’s a bit of a flaky excuse, but I get it.”

Fingon’s chair creaked as he shifted in it, still talking.

“But in all that time before, what stopped you from sending someone out? What stopped you from leaving Celegorm in charge and going after Nelyo yourself?”

Maglor stood frozen in place, pinned down by the accusations.

“I— I didn’t—”

Bitterness crept into Fingon’s tone.

“Yeah, you definitely didn't do anything. That’s for sure.”

“I couldn’t risk…!”

“That’s not it! Admit it! You were _scared!_ ” Fingon stood up from the chair in a rush, knocking it over in his haste. His dark blue eyes blazed, and cold fury wrapped his words in ice as he continued.

“And that’s just _fine_ , Makalaure, that’s normal, it’s normal to be scared, but you let your fear control you, and the absolute _worst_ thing is that you let it crush your love for Nelyo! You didn’t do anything, and now _look at what’s happened to him!_ ”

They were in each other’s faces now, wrath and frustration built up over decades exploding in the stark white room.

Maglor’s voice crackled and burned like a bed of live coals.

“There wasn’t anything I could do, Findekano! I didn’t have a choice!”

“I even asked you to come with me,” Fingon muttered, venomous, “but I knew you wouldn’t. I _knew_ you wouldn’t dare.”

“I _would have!_ ” Maglor shouted back. “If only I wasn’t the oldest left— if _my_ _father_ was still alive…!”

Feanor flinched as if struck.

Fingon’s short laugh cut sharper than a blade.

“Don’t kid yourself. You’ve always been like this. You’re a coward!”

Maglor frantically masked the hurt on his face with anger. “I’m not! I— If I have the ability to do something, then I do it!”

“Where's the proof of that?” Fingon shouted, gesturing at Maedhros. “All I see here is your own brother, who you were too scared to follow and _abandoned to torture—”_

The pitch of Maglor’s voice rose and cracked.

“Even if I’m scared, I know myself well enough to pretend to be brave!”

“Well, you can stop putting on the act!” Fingon screamed, shoving Maglor away, his voice sounding choked in the narrow room. “You’ve proved that you don’t care about Nelyo, and _nothing you do will_ ever _change that!!_ ”

Maedhros’ quiet, gasping breaths filled the ensuing silence.

“I do care,” Maglor whispered, and turned away.

His footsteps were just the slightest bit unsteady as he left the room, silent as death, and walked outside the building.

He didn’t get far. Maglor stopped just past the doorway and slumped back against one of the building’s walls, then slid down until he was curled into himself, hugging his knees to his chest. He was saying something under his breath, and it took Feanor a second to hear what it was.

“I care,” Maglor whispered, over and over again. “I care, I care, I care…”

And then he was sobbing, silent, tears flowing freely down his cheeks only to end up trapped in the dark, wiry strands of his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re enjoying what you’ve read so far, or if you’ve got any critiques to share, please consider leaving me a comment. It’s readers like you that help me improve my writing and generate new ideas. Every comment brightens my day, so thank you!
> 
> I had to take a break in order to focus on exams and research, but I'm nearing the end of that now, so I've returned. Thanks for reading, and look forward to some more updates soon. See you next time on: The Blank Tapestry!


	15. A Nominal Deduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon and Maglor reconcile. Feanor figures something out about the nature of his visitor.

Fingon wandered outside eventually. He looked down at his older cousin, the weight of years dragging him to sit next to Maglor on the dying grass outside the building. Fingon let his head fall back against the wooden walls, staring at the pale sky above. Then he reached into his pack.

“Here. Your harp,” Fingon said, and tapped Maglor on the shoulder with the instrument.

Maglor took the harp without looking at his cousin, cradling the instrument gently in his arms. It was a bit dusty, and the intricacies on the corner of the outer rim were slightly dented from when Fingon had dropped it. Nevertheless, it seemed to be in working condition, which Feanor honestly found surprising, considering the circumstances under which that particular harp had been made.

Maglor began tuning it, as if out of reflex. The soft plink of harpstrings faded into the rustle of the grass and trees and the distant sounds of conversations in the Fingolfinian encampment.

Maglor’s words rose into the air quietly like incense smoke.

“It was supposed to be me.”

“What do you mean?” Fingon asked.

“I…” Maglor struck a wildly discordant note on the harp and set to tuning the corresponding string. “When we were deciding who to send to parley with Moringotto, we originally decided on sending me. I'm the second in line. I'm not as important, but important enough to be entrusted with missions. Celegorm and Caranthir lack diplomacy, Curufin has other priorities, and none of us would send the twins out for something like this.”

Fingon stayed silent, listening.

“Then, a few days before I was to leave, Nelyo demanded to switch with me. I’d been working on a composition, a song that would tell our story, and I wasn’t sleeping much. He said I looked too tired to travel, and told me to get some rest, and he left, and then, well, you know what happened.”

Fingon’s voice was carefully steady. His blue eyes reflected the light-grey sky in brighter hues.

“It wasn’t your fault, or Nelyo’s. You couldn’t have predicted that Moringotto would...”

Maglor shook his head.

“No, that's not it. We all _knew_ the invitation to negotiate was a trap, but… we were too confident. Nelyo brought a full regiment of soldiers with him, even though he'd been asked to go alone, and we thought that was enough. Nelyo was the only one who had doubts, but we… told him he was just exhibiting the usual family paranoia. You know, like our father.”

The thought flashed across Feanor's mind unbidden. _Is that what they think of me?_

Maglor ran his fingers across the strings again, releasing a ripple of notes in minor key. “Nelyo said I should leave him behind if he was captured. He said— he said he wasn't worth that much, and I had no idea what he… so I promised I would. But I _never thought it would actually happen!”_

Fingon shuffled closer to Maglor and let his head rest on Maglor’s shoulder. The golden wire in Fingon’s braids glinted in the daylight.

“The first time I ever openly disobeyed Nelyo was at Losgar,” Maglor admitted quietly. “You know all too well what happened because of that. I told myself then that I would never break a promise to him, or to anyone, again.”

Maglor turned to look at his cousin.

“It’s not an excuse. I just… thought you should know.”

Fingon pulled himself even closer and wrapped his arm around the musician. They sat like that for a while.

Eventually, Fingon stood up.

“Come back inside, Makalaure.”

“I’m sorry,” Maglor said, gaze still lowered.

“I forgave you years ago, remember?” Fingon said wryly. “ _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t have brought any of this up.”

“You of all people have nothing to apologize for, Finno.”

“Never mind that. Come inside. Come in and play something. I'm sure Nelyo will hear it and love it, even though he isn't awake.”

Maglor smiled, but he'd clearly noticed what Fingon hadn’t said.

Fingon had apologized for bringing up his complaints against Maglor, but he hadn’t apologized for the complaints themselves. He had meant it, then, everything he said to Maglor. Fingon truly thought Maglor was a coward.

Feanor would have protested that.  _Maedhros_ would have protested that. But Maglor said nothing, because that was simply his way: to watch and wait, and leave well enough alone.

It crossed Feanor's mind that his second son might actually be bit of a coward.

* * *

The Maia had returned.

“You again,” said Feanor.

Feanor kept his eyes on the tapestry, watching his eldest son receive treatment from the Fingolfinians as his second son played a soft tune on the harp Fingon had returned to him.

Maglor didn’t sing; just strummed the harp lightly. Since he wasn’t using his voice, the music was only spectacular and not overwhelmingly heartwrenching. At least Maglor seemed to be enjoying himself to a visible extent, given the circumstances. Feanor’s second son was never as free as when he was making music.

The Maia coughed a bit to drag Feanor out of his thoughts.

“I have returned,” the Maia noted pointlessly, and then, “I see your son is safe.”

“Nelyafinwe isn’t _safe_ ,” Feanor grumbled. “He’s in the hands of my _half-brother_ ’s people…” A quick glance at the tapestry. “Still, I suppose some of them aren’t as bad as others.”

Fingon was indeed still in Maedhros’ room. He sat slumped over Maedhros’ bedside, his pale hand resting lightly on top of Maedhros’ only remaining one. Every now and then, his hand tightened around his cousin’s. Feanor couldn’t help but notice that his nephew hadn’t slept well since before he’d left for Thangorodrim.

The Maia nodded, expression grave.

“He is safe, for now. I am glad they listened.”

That seemed to ring a bell in Feanor’s mind. It was the same bell that had sounded whenever his sons or apprentices attempted to conceal parts of the truth by omitting important details. Years of being accustomed to such evasiveness meant that Feanor was inclined to investigate, because something was definitely unclear about that comment.

“ _They_ listened?” Feanor mused. “Who are you referring to, exactly?”

The Maia said nothing, but Feanor’s curiosity wouldn’t be dismissed so easily.

“They… Do you mean the Valar, listening to Findekano’s last-minute prayer?”

The Maia quirked its head in genuine confusion, and asked “What is ‘Findekano’s last-minute prayer’?”

“Never mind,” Feanor said. “Of course you wouldn’t have seen it...”

Then he thought about that for a second.

“...but you _did_ see Maedhros on the cliff, the last time you visited. Is that what you’re talking about? Did you tell someone about that, and they listened?”

More silence from the Maia, but when had that ever stopped Feanor from probing deeper?

“You told your master. You told Namo of the Halls.” Feanor tried.

..Was that a smile that just flitted across the Maia’s face? If the Maia found this amusing, then it was definitely worth investigating.

“...No,” continued Feanor, “it is unlikely that any of the Valar would take action without strict confirmation that the action is necessary.” He scoffed. “I mean, they rarely take action even _after_ confirming its necessity. Useless, is what they are, most of the time.”

Feanor began to pace the room. “Manwe is far too invested in regulations to send my son aid based only on an impulse. And after all, even Manwe and Varda can only see or hear one thing at once. Someone must have prompted them to focus on Angamando, and Manwe must have greenlit the expedition _before_ my nephew asked for help. Findekano was only the catalyst, not the source. Which means at least one of the Valar pleaded my son’s case before the Valarin council.”

He stole a look at the Maia, whose face was impassive as always, but… there! Another smirk, Feanor was sure of it.

“You are correct,” said the Maia, “and for your information, it was Namo of the Halls who brought this before the Valar.”

Feanor scrunched his brows together, deep in thought. “Then by my earlier supposition, if it was Namo who told Manwe to help my son, Namo must have seen my son in torment himself. But even Manwe must have some difficulty seeing through the dark fog of Angamando. It’s highly improbable that _Namo_ can look past the fog unaided. Which means the only way Namo could have seen my son is... using something he has access to, a tool to view the world such as… my… tapestry...”

Feanor’s eyes snapped up as realization struck. He stopped in his tracks and glared at the Maia.

“There’s a chance that this is wrong. After all, a likely outcome isn’t always the correct one. I suppose it’s worth a shot though, because if this is true, then everything falls into place. The only person other than me who’s seen my son on the tapestry is _you_ , which means...”

Feanor pointed an accusing finger at the Maia.

“You’re not just any Maia. You’re Namo!”

The Maia’s physical form began to waver.

Then it started to stretch and elongate as it took on the shape Feanor most commonly associated with its true identity, a dark grey elf-like shadow that had roamed the courts of Valinor rarely and the cities not at all.

When the transformation finished, Feanor was standing in front of Namo, one of the eternal Valar, an instrument in the world’s creation, and immortal lord and ruler of the Halls of Mandos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My summer break has officially begun! I’ve got about a week of freedom before I’ve got to get back to work, but I intend to capitalize upon that time as much as possible. Expect another update within the week, and once again, feel free to leave me comments!
> 
> This time on The Blank Tapestry, Feanor puts on his detective hat and tries out some Holmes-ian logic.
> 
> I have a hard time picturing Manwe, the eternal stickler for rules, just deciding on a whim that it’s a good idea to send his eagles to help one of the Feanorians that he just finished damning to death a few years ago. Therefore, I took advantage of the fact that the Valar are canonically called to council to discuss matters of import, and added in Feanor’s access to a TV, and voila!— a reason for Manwe’s swift response. Of course Manwe was only able to send help because of Fingon’s courageous act, but he wouldn’t have made that decision without Namo’s intervention and the subsequent approval of the Valarin council. Namo, for his part, only decided to help out because he walked in on one of Feanor’s apology sessions and saw Feanor, who he had previously thought of as a heartless wretch, despair at his son’s torture (see Chapter 8). Fingon and Feanor, unintentionally working together, managed to get Maedhros out of there. They’re a big happy family, looking out for each other like good families do. No quarrels over ancestry here, nope. None whatsoever.
> 
> Feanor did actually miss something in his line of reasoning (it’s not his fault, he just doesn’t know a very small piece of information), which Namo will point out next chapter. If you find anything else a bit off, then please do let me know!


	16. A Logical Direction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feanor has trouble being nice. Maglor proposes a field trip to the other side of the lake.

“Well done,” intoned Namo, lord of the Halls of Mandos. “You are indeed correct, although your reasoning was partially flawed.”

The accusation of incorrect logic was enough to preempt the tirade that Feanor had just been about to unleash.

“Flawed? How so?” Feanor asked, defensive.

“It is true that I alerted Manwe to your son’s plight, and it is also true that I would not have done so without seeing your son for myself. However, there was and is another way for me to see outside the Halls. My wife, Vaire, is a weaver first and foremost, and your mother’s guardian as well. She too chronicles the history of the world on tapestries. I could have viewed your son on her works.”

“Well, you didn’t,” Feanor said, a bit petulant. “So either you weren’t paying attention, or she didn’t weave that particular scene.”

The Vala’s skin tone flashed gray for a second in a Valarin sign of amusement that Feanor now recognized vaguely from his time with Aule, and... Feanor was immediately sidetracked from his previous line of thought.

The creature’s earlier smiles hadn’t been a lapse of emotion at all. Instead, they must have been deliberate, meant to egg Feanor on and direct him to the correct conclusion.

Feanor scowled.

“Your expressions. You’ve been toying with me. You _wanted_ me to discover you.”

“It is often tense around here, tending only to the souls of the dead," admitted the Vala in lieu of a reply. "Elves, by nature of their immortality, cannot die peaceful deaths, and so many of the souls that find refuge in my halls are broken and silent, despairing. You are… not quite a breath of fresh air, but… definitely something different. And you, like all the others, are in need of help.”

Feanor bristled. “I do not need _sympathy_ from the likes of you.”

“You may not need it, but you will receive it all the same.”

The Vala swept towards the exit.

What an annoyingly condescending creature, thought Feanor. Still, the Vala deserved thanks for his part in saving Maedhros. This— acknowledging thanks— would have been impossible for him during his last century alive, but now, it was merely difficult. He could do it.

 _Thank him, Feanaro,_ his conscience interjected.

“I know, I will,” Feanor muttered as the Vala neared the door. “Just… give me a second.”

_Oh get over yourself, Feanaro, you don’t need time to prepare for a simple ‘thank you.’ Tell him now!_

“All right, fine, I’ll say it!” Feanor declared at normal volume.

The Vala turned, inquisitive.

“Thank you,” Feanor said, forcing the words from his mouth. “For bringing my son’s case to the attention of the Valar. I… appreciate it.”

Namo bowed his head, and took his leave.

“Good riddance,” Feanor whispered snidely.

And just after the door slammed shut, Feanor realized that he had forgotten to give the Vala his papers on signal amplification so that the Vala could send them to Mahtan. Feanor let out a long-suffering groan. Looks like the wait for a device with better connectivity would be longer than he’d thought.

* * *

The next morning, Maedhros’ vital signs stabilized.

Fingon’s sigh of relief upon hearing the news seemed to empty him out, years of stress and focus leaving him all at once. He finally allowed himself to rest, curling up on a chair in the corner of Maedhros’ room and falling asleep within minutes.

Maglor threw a last complicated glance at his brother and his cousin, then rushed back to his own camp. It didn’t take him long to make the trip around the lake.

His guard captain had received news of his arrival from the lookout tower, and was waiting for him at the gates.

“Sir.”

Maglor was out of breath, a hopeful smile plastered on his face as he leapt down from his horse.

“Arienwe, my brother’s in better shape. He’s going to be alright!”

Arienwe smiled back. “I never doubted it.”

Her expression sobered as she continued. “But I’ve got an urgent report for you, sir. There have been increased sightings of Orcs around these parts, and some of our people were waylaid by the enemy. No deaths, and the injured will make a full recovery, but still... It’s like the Dark Lord’s focusing on this area, scouting us out, picking off stragglers. The defenses around our settlement will definitely hold out, but from now on, anyone who leaves the boundaries will have to be prepared.”

Maglor tsked. “I see. Dispatch a regiment to—”

His guard captain cut him off with a lazy salute.

“It’s been dealt with, sir. I just wanted to let you know what’s what. The captain of Lord Nelyafinwe’s guard— you know the guy— insisted on riding out to face them himself.” She dropped her hand and scowled. “Bit of a glory hog, that one.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow, a smile forming against his will. “And you let him steal all the fun?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have, before today,” Arienwe replied, rolling her eyes. “But since I knew Lord Nelyafinwe was coming back soon, I reckoned the guy would need _something_ to report to his commander, and a desperate last stand against a ferocious group of Orcs is probably good enough.”

“Besides,” she continued, hefting her lance in one hand, “although I do enjoy a good fight, I’m not keen on dying just yet. I’ve got a husband and a son waiting for me back in Valinor, sir, and I aim to live long enough to see them again.”

Maglor’s smile grew in force, fond memories returning. “I remember meeting them once. They were wonderful people: your family. What was your son’s name again?”

But before she could answer, Maglor was accosted by the Ambarussa, who had appeared as if out of nowhere from either side of Maglor, each of them grabbing one of Maglor’s arms.

“We heard that Nelyo’s back!” they said, perfectly in sync. “Is it true?”

“Yes—” Maglor began, and then his eyes widened. “Wait. You spoke together again. You haven’t done that since— since...”

They looked at each other, almost surprised. “So we did,” they said, at the same time again, and laughed.

“Forget about that, Kano,” Amrod said alone, letting go of Maglor’s arm. He rubbed absentmindedly at the scars on his face. “How is Nelyo?”

“Well, he’s not on the verge of death anymore, but… he’s hurt, and badly,” Maglor admitted. “I was at the other camp just now, checking on him. The healers are doing their best.”

The Ambarussa nodded at each other, determined.

“We’ll help him,” Amras said.

“I have no doubts about that,” Maglor declared. “In fact, I think he could use some help from all of us. Ambarussa, go tell your brothers to pack their bags. We’re going to spend the day in the Fingolfinian camp.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing new this chapter, just some set up for future fun.
> 
> I just started my first day at my summer job! It was fun, but I’m not really looking forward to the incredibly large amount of work I’m going to have to do. The experience is definitely worth it though, so I'm also going to do my best to learn and try new things.


	17. A Troublesome Expedition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sons of Feanor enter enemy territory. Celebrimbor goes for a walk.

Maglor was pissed.

“What exactly is the problem here?” Maglor asked, tapping his foot impatiently, chin raised in a show of class and status. “Have we not already established cordial relations between our factions? Have my brothers and I not visited your settlement before?”

“Uh, yes, but—”

“Why then do you not allow us entry?”

Maglor was standing with his younger brothers and nephew arrayed behind him at the gates to the Fingolfinian camp. Said gates were being stubbornly held closed by the guards, on the grounds of the fact that…

“I mean, I apologize, Lord Kanafinwe, but… it’s true that you’ve all entered before, in groups of at most three. Now _all six of you_ want to come in at once, with Lord Nelyafinwe already here, and…”

Maglor snorted. “What do you think we’re going to do, attack? For Eru’s sake, even if we wanted to, what chance would we _possibly_ stand with just seven of us?”

A pretty good chance, Feanor thought privately. He’d seen the state of the Fingolfinians’ weapons. Only some of the royal family had swords or lances that were even close to good quality.

“None of us will cause any of you any harm,” Maglor declared, and Celebrimbor nodded earnestly from Curufin’s side.

The soldier probably couldn’t help the way his somewhat frightened gaze shot to Celegorm. The blond hunter threw a feral grin back at him in response, and the guard’s visage went a shade paler than before.

“You’re not helping,” Maglor snapped, and Celegorm scuffed his boots remorsefully.

Maglor put a hand to his forehead in exasperation. “Listen. We just want to visit our brother. You must have heard about the state he’s in. We want to see him. We will _not_ cause any trouble. Can you understand that?”

“I… uh, I suppose… um…” the guard dithered, and then said in a rush, “wait, just let me go fetch my lord—”

“No need for that,” came a familiar, ethereal voice, and Feanor growled, for it was Galadriel.

“Welcome, cousins. If you would follow me, I can direct you to Nelyafinwe’s room. This way, please.”

She swept off, her golden hair floating in a halo behind her, and Feanor let out an audible hmph of annoyance. The woman wasn’t even checking to see if anyone was following. What a terrible host.

However, it wasn’t as if Maglor and the others needed the directions. The sons of Feanor had lived here only a few years ago. Though the layout had changed a bit as the settlement expanded, it was similar enough that they could find their way around. Besides, most of them had visited at least once since they had moved away. Maglor had been here just yesterday.

Only Celebrimbor hadn’t returned to this side of the lake since the swap, and he seemed to be full of a strange sort of nervousness. The young man kept up a reasonably quiet running commentary of his thoughts as they walked past locations he remembered.

“It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it, father? I’m pleased that they’ve kept the row of trees by the western courtyard. Ah, look, they’ve built a small plaza in the center of the settlement. It’s lovely; we should have done that.”

Curufin nodded along to his son’s statements, although he obviously had something else on his mind. They all did, and even Celebrimbor eventually let himself fall to silence as they arrived at their destination.

“Here we are,” Galadriel said, pointing at the door. “Findekano’s out at the moment, so you will have your brother all to yourselves for a few hours. Nelyafinwe hasn’t woken up yet, but I’m told that if he does awaken, you should let one of the healers know. Let _me_ know if there’s anything else I can do for you. Farewell.”

She made to turn away, but was stopped by a young voice.

“Wait!”

“...Yes, Telperinquar?”

“Do you, uh, do you know where Uncle Findarato is? I… I think I’ll go visit him.”

Galadriel looked confused, but replied nonetheless. “He is most likely at his residence. Head west, take a right at the western courtyard, then a left at the next row of buildings, and it’s the building to your right.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” she allowed, and then she was gone.

Maglor, Caranthir, and the Ambarussa had already entered Maedhros’ building, and Feanor could hear the younger three exclaiming in shock at their brother’s state, and Maglor’s muffled response. An air of tension wound out through the door, and Celegorm stood motionless for a full minute before letting out a huff of breath and barging in.

Curufin was on the threshold, but he paused when his son took a step back.

“What’s wrong, Telpe?”

“I… uh, I— I think I’ll visit Uncle Findarato now.”

“What? _Now?”_ Curufin asked, incredulous. “You would put a cordial visit to Findarato over tending to your Uncle Nelyafinwe, who is _on the verge of death_?”

Celebrimbor swallowed audibly. Was it just Feanor’s imagination, or were the young man’s hands shaking?

“S-sorry, father. I misjudged myself. I don’t think I’m ready to see Uncle Nelyo. Not… not yet.”

Curufin gave his son a long look, and Celebrimbor quailed under the intensity of the glare. In the end, Curufin just sighed.

“Very well. I expect you back here in less than three hours. Understood?”

“Yes, father,” came the quiet reply. Curufin nodded sharply, then followed the rest of his brothers.

And Celebrimbor set off in search of Finrod.

* * *

It had been far too long since Feanor had watched over his grandson. Besides, Feanor could sympathize with the boy: he too had no desire to see his sons fall to pieces over their brother’s condition. He had seen his eldest through the worst of it. He’d come back to them later.

Feanor’s connector device lay against the western wall. He did his best to pick the device up without looking at the tapestry of the Helcaraxe that hung starkly above it.

 _“Follow Telperinquar,”_ he commanded.

Thankfully, it seemed Celebrimbor was family enough for the device to connect properly. The threads of the blank tapestry wavered a bit, but complied, and Feanor was now tracking his grandson’s path through the Fingolfinian establishment.

It didn’t take long for Celebrimbor to arrive at Finrod’s house, but to the boy’s disappointment, Finrod didn’t seem to be at home.

The young man sighed and retraced his steps to the western courtyard. Now that he was paying attention, Celebrimbor noticed a young girl with golden hair playing barefoot in the grass at the far end of the field. He began to walk away, then realized something and returned.

“Um… are you Itarille?” he called out.

Idril Celebrindal stopped her movements and turned. Then she yelled out a cordial, “Hello!” before racing over to Celebrimbor’s side of the field.

In response, a short, dark-haired figure that had been sitting near her got up and started walking over at a much more reasonable pace. Idril made it to Celebrimbor before the other figure had even finished getting up and dusting himself off. She was _fast_.

“Hello! A visitor! What’s your name? You already know mine, it seems? It’s lovely to meet you!”

Her words came out like confetti, fast and light and all at once without pauses.

Celebrimbor put on a tenuous smile almost as if he was unsure of his own identity.

“I’m… uh… Telperinquar? Your cousin?”

Idril’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ of surprise.

“ _You’re_ Telperinquar! Wow! My uncle tells me that even though you’re only a few decades older than me, you’re already a master smith!”

“Ah… I’m not a master smith. I mean, not yet— I haven’t had a chance to take the examination, because of. Um. You know, all this.”

“Still! That’s so cool! You’re _so cool_!”

"Ah, thank you, but... I uh, I'm not that cool, I'm just normal, really. In any case, have you seen Uncle Findarato recently?"

Idril shook her head no in reply as the dark-haired figure finally made it over to them. The figure had long since revealed itself to be a boy who looked younger than Celebrimbor and older than Idril. He turned to Celebrimbor and executed a very proper bow: one which marked the executer of the bow as a middle-class noble and the receiver of the bow as royalty. Feanor didn’t know who this kid was, but it seemed he wasn’t a complete fool.

“Hello, and welcome. Pleased to meet you, Lord Telperinquar, and my name—”

Celebrimbor cut him off inadvertently with a protest. “Oh, uh, please don’t call me ‘Lord.’ Just Telperinquar is fine. Or Telpe, for short. You too, Itarille: call me Telpe. I know Telperinquar is long and difficult to say.”

“Telpe!” chimed Idril, trying out the phrase for herself.

“I think Telperinquar sounds nice,” mused the dark-haired stranger. “Can I just keep calling you that?”

Celebrimbor shrugged and the younger boy smiled.

“I’m actually a cousin of Itarille’s as well,” the boy said. “Her grandmother and my grandfather are siblings. Anyways, I’m supposed to be watching over Itarille while she, ah…” — he rolled his eyes deliberately — “‘practices her dancing out here.’”

Idril pouted. “Hey, what was that tone of voice for? You don’t like my dancing? Rude!”

The boy sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with your dancing, Itarille, it’s just… could you practice inside? The wind keeps blowing my papers away and I really want to finish my notes.”

The stranger was indeed carrying a short stack of papers and a worn-out book, Feanor noted. On closer inspection, the book’s identity was revealed to be “The Art of Negotiation,” by Rumil.

...Feanor approved.

Idril and the boy were still arguing.

“It makes me feel free!” Idril was saying, spinning around with her arms outstretched for emphasis. “When I take my boots off and dance in the grass, it makes me feel alive! I haven’t been able to do this for sooooo long!”

“Why—” Celebrimbor began to ask, before he immediately shut himself off. Only the other boy noticed, but he said nothing.

“Besides,” Idril continued, hands clasped behind her back, “I haven’t left this settlement since we got here. I don’t know the area outside very well, and all the adults are too busy to go with me. Dancing in the grass is the closest I'll get to walking in the forests outside.”

“You haven't left the camp at all?!” Celebrimbor cut in. “That sounds terrible! I wish… Wait! Do you want _me_ to show you the forests?”

“You could take me outside...?” Idril asked hesitantly.

“Yes! I know this area really well! I lived here for years, Itarille, remember? The woods outside are really pretty; it’s a shame you haven’t had the chance to explore them.”

“I can go outside?” Idril whispered, and then she squealed and threw her arms around Celebrimbor with enough force to send him reeling back. She giggled and helped him regain his balance, then tugged on his arm.

“Let’s go right now, Telpe! Oh!” She turned to her friend, who was reading his book again. “Do you want to come too?”

The dark-haired boy looked up at them, then pointedly down at his book, then up at them again with an eyebrow raised. Idril let out a dramatic sigh.

“Of course you don’t. You can just stay here then. Come on, Telpe, let’s go!”

She turned west and began to walk, then run, as her excitement propelled her forward. Celebrimbor began to follow, wearing a smile brighter than any Feanor had seen on him for decades.

The dark-haired boy had reached for Idril as she left, but had missed her. Now he grabbed the edge of Celebrimbor’s robes, holding him in place. 

“Hold on!” the dark-haired boy said to Celebrimbor, eyes narrowed. “That sounds dangerous! What if— I hesitate to say it, but what if you and Idril are attacked?”

Celebrimbor smiled. “Don't worry, I’ve been in these forests a lot. There’s never anything dangerous all the way out here.”

The dark-haired boy looked like he was going to argue.

”It’s fine. Trust me,” Celebrimbor said, and the boy released a breath of air and let go of Celebrimbor.

Idril and Celebrimbor sprinted through the settlement, urging each other to greater speeds even as they ran. They made it all the way to the border, and barely stifled their laughter enough to sneak past the guards at the gates.

Dark leaves fell around them as they disappeared into the forest together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a long chapter this week, in which our favorite helpful boy Celebrimbor gets a few moments in the spotlight! 
> 
> Once again, thanks for accompanying me on this journey, and please feel free to leave me comments critiquing my work!
> 
> Galadriel guided them to Maedhros herself instead of just letting them go on their own because 1) it would assure residents that the Feanorians had permission to be here, and 2) she would prefer to keep them from causing trouble. Fortunately for her, all of them are far too preoccupied with Maedhros’ health to start making mischief, because otherwise, Celegorm would definitely have tried to screw with something.
> 
> I decided that it’s admissible for Elves to have confetti because confetti is not all that advanced, and because the simile was perfect for Idril’s speech style and demeanor. It was just so fitting that I couldn’t bear to remove the potential anachronism. :)
> 
> Celebrimbor and Idril were able to sneak out of the settlement past the guards because 1) the guards were looking for intruders, not escapees, and 2) many of the guards in the usual watch rotation have currently been re-assigned to something that we will find out about later.


	18. A Disquieting Detail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sons of Feanor make use of their innate talent for engineering. Curufin discovers where his son has gone.

Idril’s eyes shone like jewels as Celebrimbor led her through some of the more well-traveled paths in the forest. She often stopped to gape at some type of bird or the other, and once became so enamoured by the blades of grass in a field that she halted progress for half an hour just to dance. Celebrimbor was indulging, and his patient, honest grin never wavered.

Feanor, however, was beginning to get bored. One could only look at flowers for so long before one’s mind began to retreat into a stupor, yet these two showed no signs of stopping.

Besides, Celebrimbor was right about the safety of this forest: Feanor had kept an eye on his people for decades while they lived here, and never once had they been attacked in the immediate surroundings of the encampment. In fact, the whole area around the lake had always been relatively enemy-free.

Nothing interesting was going to happen here.

“ _Show me Nelyafinwe,”_ he sent to his connector.

Threads of varying shades of green stretched inward and twisted back on the tapestry to be hidden from view by light grey and dark red: colors depicting the walls of the healing quarters and the Feanorians’ clothing. Most of the red was gathered in one corner of the tapestry, for it seemed that all Feanor’s sons save Maedhros were huddled around a small table in the corner of Maedhros’ room.

Curufin held a fine quill pen, which he was currently using to gesture wildly at Amrod. Hanging over the edge of the table was a large piece of parchment, which Caranthir had evidently produced for them, judging by the product stamp in the corner.

And on the parchment…

Ah.

Yes, these were definitely _his_ sons, and the blood of the Noldor ran strong in them.

A rush of pride swelled within Feanor, for the paper on the table was covered with hand-drawn diagrams of the current state of Maedhros’ arm, accompanied by sketches of designs for a mechanical hand to replace the one he had lost.

The designs were well-made and accurate. It was enough to send Feanor’s spirits soaring skyward: his sons hadn’t broken down in their grief. Instead, they had banded together to do what they could for Maedhros, and they were building, _thinking_ , working towards a common goal for the sake of family and the art of creation, plying their trades for the benefit of those who truly mattered.

They were still at work, discussing and refining the designs they had completed.

“Amrod, listen,” Curufin was saying. “You’re right: if we were to use _just_ iron, for example, it would be far too heavy. But that’s not what I’m suggesting here. I say we use two separate materials, one around the other. A stronger core and a lighter coating.”

“That will make it much more difficult to repair than just using different materials for different parts. Keep in mind that this will have to last him decades, at the very least,” Caranthir said.

“I’ll always be around to fix it,” Curufin declared.

“Hate to say it, but we can’t be sure of that,” Caranthir retorted, and received a scowl from his younger brother in response.

“We don’t have a proper stock of iron, or any metal, right now,” Celegorm said, tapping his fingers on his arm. “We used most of the higher quality stuff on weapons and fortifications. I’d need to organize an expedition to the north.”

“That isn’t the point here,” Amras said, with a hand on the table for balance. “Iron is too heavy, Curvo, even if it’s just a core surrounded by something lighter. It might work well for other purposes, but in light of Nelyo’s medical state, iron is not going to cut it.”

“He’s hyperextended his shoulder, and his muscles have atrophied,” Amrod added. “Don’t count on him being able to lift anything, let alone an iron hand, for quite a while. We’ll have to account for the loss of his strength in planning this, at least for now.”

Curufin contemplated that, then nodded, noting down modifications to the sketch in a steady scrawl.

“Okay,” he said, finally circling one of the designs. “Are we done? Anything else to add?”

Maglor gently shoved him to the side to get a better look at the design, then sighed.

“You’ve forgotten the most important constraint. The device has to be comfortable, or at least as close to painless as we can possibly get it. These clasps: here and here. They’re just for added stability, aren’t they? They might pinch. Remove them.”

Curufin waved his hand dismissively.

“Comfort is unimportant, at least for an initial prototype. We’ll focus on functionality first, then fix whatever aspects of it Nelyo finds uncomfortable once he tells us. It shouldn’t take more than a week to correct those minor flaws, once he wears the device for the first time.”

Maglor’s voice was earnest. “That would make perfect sense for almost anyone else. But for Nelyo? Think about it, Curvo — Nelyo is exactly the sort of person who _wouldn’t admit it_ if anything was wrong. He would wear the device, thank us very nicely, and act as if everything was perfectly fine, even if our attachment mechanism was simply a large spike driven through the center of his wrist. That’s just how he is.”

“Good point,” Caranthir mumbled.

“But is he the same now as he used to be?”

Feanor couldn’t tell who had said that, but all of them looked very uncomfortable at the thought.

Curufin rolled the parchment up and tied it closed. “In any case… You are most likely correct, Kano. Very well. We shall have to revisit this design later to make it more ‘comfortable.’”

He handed the parchment to Celegorm, who placed it in his pack with more care than Feanor would have expected. Curufin’s eyes narrowed and he glared at the door.

“Now though, if I am correct in my estimation, it has been more than three hours since we arrived. Where is Telperinquar?”

Maglor’s reassuring smile, Feanor observed, was remarkably similar to Celebrimbor’s.

“I’m sure he simply lost track of time while speaking with Findarato. Shall we go find him, Curvo?”

“I’ll come too,” Celegorm said, but Maglor shoved him down lightly before he could fully rise from his chair.

“ _You_ will stay right here and look after everyone else, Tyelko. Moryo, please, look after him.”

“I get in _one_ fight at the wrong time and suddenly everyone’s a critic,” Celegorm muttered, slumping down in his chair, as Caranthir grumbled unintelligibly. The Ambarussa just shrugged.

Maglor and Curufin left the building.

* * *

Maglor was almost finding it difficult to keep up as Curufin stormed ahead in pursuit of his son. They were only about halfway to the western courtyard when they encountered Fingon and Finrod walking towards them.

“Kano!” said Fingon. “And Curvo, I see. Well met, cousins.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow. “Findekano, you look exhausted.”

Fingon shrugged. “I got an hour or so of sleep right after you left yesterday. But I’ve been informed that I have been shirking my responsibilities as a prince of the Noldor, so now, with those responsibilities occupying my days, and watching over... well, I really don’t have time to do anything else—”

“Makalure, please, help me force him to rest,” Finrod cut in, imploring. “We only _just_ returned to the settlement from a long, drawn-out skirmish, and Findekano here wants to go straight back to staring at Nelyo without a break.”

Fingon, for some reason, blushed, although no one else seemed to notice.

Finrod tilted his head in a sudden question. “Wait, Makalaure, is that where you’re heading as well— to Nelyo’s room? Are you lost? We can show you the way there, if you’d like.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. We were actually—” Maglor began.

“We were looking for _you_.” Curufin interrupted. “Findarato. Where is my son?”

The blond’s confusion was almost palpable.

“Your… Telperinquar? I… I haven’t seen him in years. Why are you asking _me_?”

Curufin was struggling with whether or not to believe him. He ground his teeth together, frustration and paranoia swirling within him in a way that Feanor recognized well. Feanor didn’t even need his conscience to tell him that he’d seen that expression on himself before, in the mirror, after Maedhros had visited Fingolfin’s estate one too many times and Feanor was left questioning whether there was something deficient about him, that his own son chose to spend so much time in his rival’s abode.

“Telpe told me he was going to visit you.” Curufin said through gritted teeth. “It’s been more than three hours. I told him to be back by now. No doubt the foolish child has gotten into trouble somewhere.”

“I don’t know,” Finrod said, and his troubled expression radiated innocence in a way that Feanor personally found unsettling. “But Curvo, Telperinquar is inquisitive. I’m sure he’s just found someone else to talk to, and lost track of time.”

“That’s exactly what I said,” Maglor chimed in.

“Sorry, but I think I’ll leave now,” Fingon interrupted. “I would love to stay and help, but Nelyo’s been left unattended for a long time. I should go keep an eye on him in case he begins to have seizures again. Best of luck finding Telperinquar!”

And with that he was off.

“Wait!” Maglor called out, just a little too late, and then to Curufin and Finrod, “Ah, I forgot to inform him that my younger brothers are in there. That’s going to be a surprise for him. Poor Finno. But never mind that. Where should we begin looking?”

Curufin’s mouth was set in a grim line. “We know he was going to Findarato’s house. We’ll head there first.”

* * *

Not too many people were out and about at the moment, but there _was_ a dark-haired boy sitting under a tree by the western courtyard.

“Good,” Feanor commented. “All they need to do is ask the boy, and he’ll tell them where Telperinquar is.”

This was, fortunately, exactly what Maglor did, and the boy relayed to them his conversation with Idril and Celebrimbor.

“What a waste of time,” Curufin remarked scathingly as the dark-haired boy finished speaking. “There is absolutely no benefit to staring at plants for hours on end. What could Telpe _possibly_ still be doing out there?... Findarato, stop tapping my shoulder.”

Feanor noted with interest that the Finarfinian’s face had gone pale.

“Curvo, Telperinquar and Itarille may be in danger. We have to hurry to them, Curvo— the reason Findekano and I were outside the settlement is that Orcs were sighted near the northern gates. Uncle Nolofinwe thought that it might have been because of Findeakano’s, ah, expedition, and that he should take responsibility; he and I were to drive them off, and we succeeded for the most part, but we _definitely_  left stragglers. If they have discovered Itarille and your son, then they might… I fear that…!”

Curufin’s face had drained of blood. He whirled to face the dark-haired boy. “ _You._ How could you just—  _let them leave_ , while you sit here in comfort, safe? Did you _know_ there were Orcs nearby?”

“No!” the boy exclaimed, fear running rampant through his expression. “I— I didn’t mean to—!”

“Enough. There’s no time for this,” Curufin said. He stood frozen for a second, then began striding at a frantic pace towards the west. Finrod went after him without a backward glance, and Maglor moved to follow.

“I _told_ them it would be dangerous,” the boy said, hands clenched tight around his notes and threatening to tear the wrinkled pages. “I tried to warn them, I promise!”

Maglor froze in his tracks.

“Everything is dangerous,” Maglor said to the boy with a faraway look. “Knowing which dangerous things are worth doing: well, that’s a skill that not everyone has.”

Then the distance in his eyes faded, and he laughed in a self-deprecating manner, turning to the boy with an open smile.

“I’m not too good at figuring that distinction out myself, honestly. It’s _difficult_ to decide what risks are worth taking, and even more so to help others make that decision. Don’t worry, though. It wasn’t your fault. I’m sure your friends will be alright.”

With that, Maglor left as well.

Feanor watched, curious, as the black-haired boy stared after Maglor. The doubt on the boy’s face morphed slowly into a frown of concentration. Just as Maglor turned a corner and disappeared from view, the boy seemed to realize something. His eyes widened in a flash, some nameless mix of emotions warring with themselves on his face. Was one of those emotions… recognition?

It wasn’t worth discovering: there were more important things to do. As had been said, Feanor's grandson might be in grave danger at this very moment.

“ _Show me Telperinquar!”_

The tapestry obliged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> Y’all guessed it: there’s trouble brewing. :)
> 
> Names:  
> Findarato - Finrod  
> Findekano - Fingon  
> Nelyo - Maedhros  
> Kano - Maglor  
> Turko - Celegorm  
> Moryo - Caranthir  
> Curvo - Curufin  
> Telpe/Telperinquar - Celebrimbor


	19. A Bright Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrimbor and Idril run into some trouble. Celebrimbor’s skills are put to the test.

The tapestry centered itself on a section of the forest with a group of orcs prowling the area, marching in slow patterns. It took Feanor a moment to figure out that these were scouts on a guard rotation, which meant it was likely that the enemy’s temporary base was nearby. It took Feanor even longer to find Celebrimbor in the scene: long enough, in fact, that Feanor began to fear that the boy was dead and the tapestry was focusing on the orcs that had eaten his remains.

However, a closer perusal of the trees showed a few flashes of dark red, the color of Celebrimbor’s outfit, and light blue, for Idril’s dress. The two of them were well-hidden amongst the thick foliage of a tall tree. It was only the angle of Feanor’s viewpoint that made them visible at all.

“ _Bring me closer,”_ Feanor commanded the tapestry, and to his moderate surprise, his mental connection was strong enough for the tapestry to obey.

Both children were sitting silently on a large tree branch. Celebrimbor’s gaze was sharp and calculating as he kept an eye on the scene below through a tiny gap in the leaves. Idril had her knees pulled up to her chin, and was scratching nervous patterns on the rough bark of the splintered branch they were perched upon.

“Telpe…” Idril whispered.

Celebrimbor held a finger to his lips, but nodded at her to continue.

“They— they’re going to find us if we stay here,” she said, her quiet voice shaking ever so slightly. “We should run.”

Celebrimbor shook his head.

“Patrolling. More nearby.”

The orcs’ footsteps were growing closer, pounding and crunching on the forest floor. Celebrimbor and Idril fell silent and held their breath until the dreadful noise had passed. Idril shuddered and stood up on their branch, cautiously. The leaves around them rustled in an alarming manner. 

“Telpe, please, let’s run,” Idril whispered in a rush. “One group just passed, so it’ll take some time for the next group to show up. If we can— if we can get out now, then—”

She shifted forward on the branch, but Celebrimbor tapped her and shook his head.

“No. Too dangerous. Stay.”

“ _Please,_ Telpe,” Idril begged, still standing on the branch. “I’m scared! If they find us here—! ”

“They will leave. Have patience.”

Idril’s breath was coming out in short gasps. “I don’t want to have patience, I want to _get out,_ Telpe, they’re going to find us, and take us, and do all _kinds_ of horrible things—”

“Itarille, trust me. Don’t—”

But Idril had already stepped to the edge of the branch, and Celebrimbor was too slow to catch her.

Perhaps if everything had gone according to her plan, she might have managed to escape. By pure luck, she was facing away from the enemy’s temporary campsite, and the orcs weren’t paying attention to that specific tree in the vast forest. Idril also had the advantage of being light and fast, and she might even have been able to outrun any foes who happened to spot her.

However, just as Idril prepared to jump down from the branch, the sound of an orc warhorn reverberated through the forest. Idril startled and jolted backwards, causing her foot to fall over a large splinter protruding from the rough bark of the tree.

Even then, if she had worn shoes, she might have been fine. However, Idril hated shoes and avoided them like the plague. As she stepped down, the long spike of wood embedded itself in the sole of her foot, and she screamed.

* * *

Feanor wasn’t watching Curufin’s group at the moment, but if he had been, he would have seen Maglor finish cutting down the last of a squad of orcs before it could blow its warhorn again and potentially summon allies.

Finrod looked up with a frown.

“What was that faint noise, after the horn call?”

“I’m not sure. Does it matter?” Curufin remarked, wiping ichor off his sword.

“It sounded like a high-pitched scream— which means it might be Idril, and your son might be with her.”

Curufin stiffened. “Which direction did it come from?”

“North, I think?”

They’d been heading west, but Curufin immediately changed direction. He began walking faster, and Finrod and Maglor hurried after him.

* * *

Celebrimbor leapt up and pulled Idril to him within a second, covering her mouth with one of his hands, but it was too late. The damage was done. The tromp of multiple thick feet sounded across the leafy floor as half a dozen orcs congregated around the tree.

The orcs were speaking in their own language, a rough guttural tongue that was completely incomprehensible to both the children and Feanor. However, the orcs occasionally looked up into the branches of the tree, pointing and gesturing, which made the essence of their conversation all too clear. They had noticed something suspicious, and were preparing to investigate.

Tears of pain dripped down Idril’s cheeks and she slumped backwards into Celebrimbor’s hold. Celebrimbor turned and sat her down against the trunk of the tree with her foot outstretched. The look in his eyes was nearly as frantic as in hers, and Feanor could almost see Celebrimbor’s mind racing.

“Will you be alright here on your own?” Celebrimbor whispered to Idril, and— oh no, Feanor could guess what he was going to do and this was _not_ a good idea, not at all; couldn’t his grandson think of _anything_ else?

Idril nodded shakily, and Celebrimbor lifted his hand from her mouth.

“Good. Just… stay here, alright? Don’t make a sound. I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

He leapt down through the leaves that were blocking him from view.

Celebrimbor landed lightly on the ground and straightened in one swift movement, then began to run.

The six orcs under the tree spotted the elf almost immediately. A more organized group might have left one orc behind to investigate the tree further, or split into two squads of three, but this group was far from orderly. In a frenzy, all six of the orcs abandoned the tree and rushed after Celebrimbor in a chain-mail-wearing stampede of ruined flesh.

Celebrimbor, of course, was unarmored, but he took full advantage of his extra agility to weave through the trees, ducking and darting around the terrain to the dismay of the orcs.

This worked at first, but the orcs soon realized they had the upper hand in raw power, and used it to bash their way directly to wherever Celebrimbor seemed to be heading. Meanwhile, Celebrimbor was getting tired. The fact that there were six of them only hastened the end of the chase, and it wasn’t long before the young elf was surrounded.

Feanor’s hands were clenched tight in his incorporeal robes. He forced himself to relax them, slowly, as Celebrimbor did his best to back away toward the largest gap in the formation around him.

The situation looked grim.

“Aule give me strength,” Celebrimbor whispered, and Feanor had just enough time to get offended at the fact that his grandson was praying to one of the blasted Valar before the fight began.

Celebrimbor drew his short sword, the only weapon he was carrying, and whirled a full 180 degrees to face the orc behind him, transitioning smoothly into a lunge with his sword aimed at the orc’s unprotected neck.

Feanor blinked, for he had developed that very technique himself. He had worked hard to master it, then had taught it to his sons in his workshop back in Valinor, Laurelin's golden rays slanting across the stone floor as their wooden practice blades sliced the air. It was always important to be aware of what’s behind you, to stand ready to face threats from any direction. This particular technique, in fact, had come in handy in his father's court, during that one fateful incident when Fingolfin had spoken one too many incendiary remarks to Feanor's turned back and Feanor had spun and lunged, the tip of his blade stopping only inches from his  _half-_ brother's unprotected neck in the crowded hall...

How strange. His feelings about that incident had... changed, slightly. He would have to consider this later.

Meanwhile, the orc Celebrimbor struck had been unprepared for such an attack and it fell back, blood spurting from a deep gash across its throat. Without a second to spare, Celebrimbor sprinted for the gap in the formation around him. Yet the death of one of their own only spurred the rest of the orcs on to greater fury. They grunted and closed in, and the one nearest Celebrimbor swung blindly in his direction with its cudgel.

It was a lucky shot for the orc. The cudgel hit Celebrimbor a glancing blow in the side, definitely enough to pierce skin, and Celebrimbor gasped and stumbled, breaking the speed of his sprint. Another two orcs charged him, swinging low, and now Celebrimbor was holding his side and panting but he still managed to dodge one enemy and catch the other’s blade on his own short sword.

The orc whose blade was trapped on Celebrimbor’s bore down on him, and Celebrimbor gritted his teeth and pushed back with all his might. As he strove with the orc for the upper hand, Celebrimbor let out a scream of defiance.

* * *

Feanor was still not watching Curufin’s group, but if he had been, he would have seen Curufin jolt upright.

“ _Telpe!”_

Then Curufin was sprinting towards the sound, followed closely by the other two.

* * *

It was at this exact moment, locked in combat with the enemy, that Celebrimbor remembered something about his short sword. The sword had been forged by Celebrimbor himself, and had in fact been made with one of Celebrimbor’s own techniques. To be specific, it possessed a unique quality— a vein of crystal was embedded in the surface of the blade. When light was called to the crystal, it covered the blade in a bright glow.

Celebrimbor began to focus on the crystal in his short sword, and a line of red light flickered across it. That shine evoked a memory in Feanor, and he recalled that day, years ago, when he had watched Celebrimbor present the first of these swords to his father. The crystal in that longer blade had been blue, and the sword had looked quite impressive. What was it that Curufin had said then?

 _That a good blade should bend and not break,_ came the proud, smooth marble voice of Feanor’s conscience, and Feanor watched as his grandson took in a deep breath and concentrated. In a sudden flash, the crystal shone bright as Arien’s flames.

The orcs were momentarily blinded, and Celebrimbor used the ensuing confusion to pull his short sword away and swing it back, full force, at a chink in the orc’s blade.

Here, Celebrimbor’s skill in the forge was validated, for while his own blade simply bent slightly and sprung back, the enemy’s shattered under the force of the blow. Shards of crude metal fell heavily to the forest floor, a sharp contrast to the verdant grass and brown leaves.

Having successfully distracted the enemy, Celebrimbor leapt backwards and made to run again.

But before he could react, a figure wearing dark red sped past him from behind and decapitated the orc with a neat swing. That figure was followed immediately by another two wearing red and pale green respectively. The three of them made short work of the six invading orcs, and Celebrimbor gasped in relief, a smile brightening his face.

“Father…!”

Curufin turned to look at his son, and a range of emotions flowed across his face: fear and rage and pride, and some others that Feanor couldn’t quite identify.

“Father! Father, I’m so glad you’re here! Idril and I were cornered by orcs, so we hid in a tree, but they found us and I had to keep her safe so I jumped down to lead the orcs away and I tried my best to fight—”

Curufin cut him off, anger and something that verged on fear rolling off him in waves. He was breathing hard and his voice was like iron as he said,

“Don’t you _dare_ do anything like that _ever again_!”

Confusion and worry flickered across Celebrimbor’s face.

“But Father, I—”

Curufin didn’t give him the opportunity to complete his sentence. He turned on his heel and stormed away, quickly disappearing from view behind the veil of trees around them.

Celebrimbor stilled, clutching the wound in his side. He stared at the spot where his father had been, a lost expression in his eyes, and whispered,

“I thought you’d be proud of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The glowing swords aren’t just pretty, they’re also useful! On a related note, Celebrimbor is a wonderful character and nothing can convince me otherwise, not even a specific video game series I might name that does its best to shatter the bonds of canon in order to propagate a falsely edgier version of the Tolkien-verse. (The first game is alright, but the second one does some things with its story that I did not appreciate.)
> 
> Thank you for your patience during my hiatus, readers. It's been very hectic. As always, please do feel free to let me know what you think of this story in the comments below. I appreciate every note, and thank you once again!
> 
>  
> 
> Additional Note: There used to be a slightly more violent scene in this chapter, where Curufin slapped Celebrimbor out of fear and anger. The reason I originally included this is discussed in the end notes of the next chapter.
> 
> However, some of the wonderful readers of this fic have spoken against this decision, and I find myself agreeing. Although I personally consider such actions relatively inoffensive, I can see how it might come across as repulsive to some readers, and that is not how I intend to portray Curufin, who is merely angry, scared, and misguided. My decision to make the change ultimately came down to the fact that though Curufin’s actions were believable to some extent, he wouldn’t have hit Celebrimbor at that point since that would injure Celebrimbor, and the fact that Celebrimbor was injured is exactly what made Curufin panic in the first place. In other words, even in his distressed mental state, Curufin wouldn’t actively contribute to the very thing that’s causing his distress. It just didn't make sense. I have edited the story to match, and I find that I prefer the new version myself.
> 
> After all, I asked for criticism, and I would be quite the hypocrite if I were to simply ignore that very same criticism when it has been so clearly presented to me! Thank you for your input, dear readers, and I hope you continue to enjoy this fic.


	20. A Protective Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod talks to Curufin. Feanor is reminded of an incident involving Maedhros in his youth.

Info: If you have been keeping up with this fic as it progresses, note that the end of the previous chapter has been mildly changed, as has the end of this one. Feel free to peruse the new, slightly different ending to the previous chapter, and then return here. More information about the change can be found in the chapter notes for the previous chapter and for this chapter.

* * *

Finrod placed a comforting hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder. Feanor grimaced at the blond elf’s over-familiarity, but Celebrimbor seemed to take comfort in it, leaning in just slightly. When it became clear that the younger elf was stuck staring at the spot where his father had just stood, Finrod sighed and moved to block Celebrimbor’s vision, turning the boy’s face towards his own.

“Telperinquar, look at me.”

Celebrimbor did so, and Finrod frowned in sympathy at the fact that the younger elf’s bottom lip was quivering dangerously.

“Telperinquar,” Finrod said, “I cannot stress how glad I am that you’re alright. It’s also lovely to see you again after such a long time, nephew.”

Celebrimbor nodded.

“You said you were with Idril, and that you both hid in a tree? Is she alright as well? Where did you leave her?”

“That way,” Celebrimbor mumbled, pointing. He drew in a deep breath, steadying himself. “We should head there right now, before anything happens to her.”

Maglor was staring out after Curufin, and now he said with a sigh, “I can go after Curvo, if you’d like me to.”

“No,” Finrod said firmly. “Makalaure, you should find Itarille and take her and Telperinquar back to the settlement. I’ll go after Curvo; I’ve got a few words to say to him. Telpe, is that alright with you? We’ll have time to chat later, when we’re all safe.”

Celebrimbor nodded again and Finrod smiled at him, kindly.

“We saw the last part of your fight, Telperinquar, and you were quite brave. I’m proud of you. And though your father may never admit it, I’m sure he’s incredibly proud of you as well.”

Celebrimbor ducked his head and nodded a third time, his face blocked from view by the curtain of his hair. Then he straightened, and all traces of his sadness were hidden save the slight redness of his eyes.

“I know,” Celebrimbor said, as full of certainty as he could sound with his voice still wobbling slightly. “I know my father well— he’s angry for good reason. I— should not have been so reckless. I need to explain myself. Just… maybe later.”

“A wonderful idea, Telpe,” Finrod said. “Let me talk to him first.”

Maglor sighed at that and muttered something that was too quiet for Feanor to hear, but which made Celebrimbor smile briefly and Finrod laugh.

Then Finrod set off after Curufin, and Maglor and Celebrimbor headed towards Idril.

* * *

Curufin was hacking at a dead log in the forest, venting frustration at Celebrimbor’s narrow escape from danger and his own ineptitude. When Finrod found him, the blond elf strode up to him with a frown and yanked Curufin’s blade away.

Finrod began to speak calmly, and if Curufin’s terse responses affected him in any way, he did not show it. The two of them were arguing, and yet they were not, for they had the same idea in mind.

“You shouldn’t have spoken so harshly to him.”

“I know. Shut up, Ingoldo.”

“But you still did.”

“I know! I know, I wasn’t thinking— just— leave me alone.”

“You’re a spirit of fire, just like your father, and you’ve been my friend for almost as long as I can remember. You’re as fierce in your love as you are in everything else, but Curvo, sometimes that fierce spirit of yours burns people. You need to control your temper.”

Curufin didn’t say anything, just kicked at the log he had hacked to pieces before. Finrod broke the silence.

“Your son loves you, Curvo.”

Curufin made a strange noise, somewhat like a pained animal.

“I… love him as well. You must understand that. I love him more than anything, and I’m so proud of how far he’s come, but— when I saw him about to die, surrounded by orcs, bloodstained— I… panicked. There is simply no other way to put it. I was _terrified._ ”

Finrod’s rueful smile reminded Feanor of someone else, although he couldn’t figure out who.

“You need to _tell_ him that, Curvo.”

Curufin nodded, looking desperate.

As Feanor stared at Curufin through the tapestry, he wondered at how similar he and his son were.  Memories welled up within him. All those years ago, in what seemed like a different lifetime, Feanor himself had been in a very similar situation…

* * *

“Father, will you teach me how to make a harp?” Maedhros asked.

The light of the Trees shone brightly this afternoon, but Feanor could not care less. He was sequestered in his private workshop, closed off from the outside world, experimenting with a new technique for a golden bracelet. When finished, he thought the bracelet would complement the looks of his youngest son, Celegorm, nicely.

“Father…” Maedhros tried again, but Feanor ignored him, focused on his work. Just a few more seconds…

There! An intricate web of gold shaped into a delicate wristband with a twist, for which the outer surface was _also_ its inner surface. It looked splendid, if Feanor did say so himself. Satisfied, he began to remove his working gear and protective coverings.

“Restate your question, Nelyafinwe. Speak up.”

“Sorry, father. I asked if you might teach me how to make a harp.”

Feanor turned to look at his eldest son. “Yes, I _might_ teach you how to make a harp. It’s a possibility. However, it isn’t very _probable_ until you phrase your question correctly.”

Maedhros sighed. “Sorry. Would you do me the favor of teaching me how to make a harp, father?”

“I would be happy to. I must ask though; why? Have you decided to take up the instrument?”

Maedhros shook his head, and his red curls bounced about his face.

“It’s for Kanafinwe, father. He sings so wonderfully, he just _has_ to have accompaniment. I thought about buying him a harp from the store he frequents, but then I thought if _you_ helped me make one, the quality would far surpass anything I could get at a store.”

At times, Feanor could be a sucker for flattery, and both he and Maedhros knew it. Feanor smirked. Honestly, if Maedhros could just get rid of his childish air of innocence, he would have everything he needed to become a successful politician.

“Why not simply ask me to make one, then?” Feanor challenged. “Why ask me to teach you instead?”

A red tinge appeared across Maedhros’ freckles as he blushed in embarrassment.

“I… know I’m not as skilled in the forge as you, father. I thought— maybe if you helped me make a harp for Kanafinwe, I might learn enough to get better, and then I could help you with other things. And then you wouldn’t be so busy anymore.”

Feanor couldn’t help but smile at that. He leaned in to ruffle his son’s hair vigorously, purposely messing up the loose hairstyle that had been pinned to match the latest fashion in Tirion. Maedhros grumbled and tried to swat him away, but he was smiling too.

“Very well,” Feanor declared. “This harp for Kanafinwe will be one of my new projects, and we shall certainly make this a learning experience for you as well, Nelyafinwe. I suppose I do need tobrush up on musical theory and its scientific properties, and this seems as good an opportunity as any. Meet me at the forge tomorrow morning, at Laurelin’s first light, and we’ll get started.”

Nelyafinwe grinned.

“Thank you, father!”

Starting from the next morning, Feanor and Maedhros began to work on making a harp. Feanor had made one before, as part of his training, but it had been a few centuries and the review was welcome. Besides, with the added motivation of helping his eldest son learn, as well as the fact that the resulting product would be used by his second son, Feanor was inspired to teach Maedhros everything he knew about the topic.

Maedhros’ first attempt was abysmal, and so was his second. By the third time, the harp at least sounded like a harp, although its tone was still far from perfect and its appearance was terribly lacking. His fourth and fifth tries were much the same, but he did not despair or give up, simply picking up new supplies and trying again.

The eleventh attempt was of good quality. The sound of the harp was relatively pure and light, and the design looked quite appealing: a slate gray polish with golden wire pressed into the metal frame that wound about the base in intricate patterns, reminiscent of glittering waves. Only a few minor flaws marred the harp’s beauty. Even Feanor could admit that this was a well-made product, though not, of course, to the same standards as an artisan who had been practicing all his life.

“Good! This is passable, Nelyafinwe. You’ve improved greatly. Your next attempt will be your final one, and this time, I will aid you in the minor details. Together, we will craft an instrument that will sound far better than any trinket Kanafinwe could have bought from that peddler down the street. We start tomorrow.”

Maedhros’ face fell.

“But, father, I’ve invited Findekano over to our place tomorrow. Can’t we begin the day after tomorrow instead?”

Feanor considered derailing his pristine schedule on account of a simple visit from one of _Fingolfin’s_ brats, and immediately discarded the idea.

“Nonsense. If your Findekano must visit, then he can watch you work. Tomorrow is the only full day I will be available to help you in the foreseeable future.”

Maedhros acquiesced.

The next day was filled with Fingon’s incessant babbling, which was bearable only because the smile on Maedhros’ face was more genuine than Feanor would have ever guessed. The clanging of the workshop’s implements, apprentices scurrying about on tasks both large and small, the heat of the molten metal hanging over the forge fire, all of it served to placate Feanor further. Besides, Feanor was close to finishing the cast iron implements he'd been asked for. Maedhros was making good progress as well: he’d completed the base of the harp already and was working golden wire into it. Feanor felt an inordinate amount of pride at the fact that his son hadn’t actually needed his help beyond a few small refinements here and there.

“Ooh, what’s that weird chemical? Hey, that harp looks amazing! Can you add a spike on the side?” Fingon’s cheer was oddly contagious, and Maedhros was still smiling as he explained that no, he couldn’t just retroactively add spikes to meaningless locations on predetermined designs.

Besides, why would you put a spike on a harp? Feanor scoffed at Fingon’s complete lack of common sense.

“Findekano,” Maedhros called out. “Be careful over there.”

Feanor didn’t bother to turn around and find out what exactly the boy was up to now.

“Russandol, look! Doesn’t this golden wire look wonderful in my hair?”

The sound of someone stepping away from him.

“Finno, watch out!”

“I find it rather stylish; perhaps I’ll— Whoa!”

There was a minor crashing noise, and then a creak, as of a large piece of metal shifting and gaining speed. Feanor spun at the noise, and it seemed to him that the world was moving in slow motion as he saw—

A forge chair had been knocked over by Fingon’s gesture, and as it fell, it had struck the base of the large crucible of molten iron hanging over the furnace. The crucible was swinging dangerously and it began to tip forward. Searing metal started to slip over the edge, headed straight for Fingon’s unprotected arm.

Maedhros was wearing light gloves, for work with golden wire. They were no match for the heat of the crucible, which was well beyond the capacity of a normal elf to withstand. Feanor, by nature of his spirit, could not be harmed by flames or heat, but Maedhros did not share his father's immunity.

Nevertheless, the resolve in Maedhros’ eyes flashed. He stepped inward, around Fingon, and reached out to steady the crucible with one hand.

The smell of burning cloth, and then burning flesh, filled the air. Maedhros gasped. He ignored the pain, gritted his teeth, and pushed harder, but the crucible wasn’t steadying fast enough, it was still tipping over and Maedhros was now right under it—

Feanor was there in an instant, yanking his son away from the furnace and steadying the crucible himself. It stilled reluctantly, like a petulant child.

Tears coursed down Maedhros’ cheeks and he bit his lip hard, drawing blood.

Feanor could barely see it; his vision was blurred and confused by a whispering haze, a fog of utter fear for his son. He was stuck in a loop replaying the moment Maedhros had abandoned all logic and stood in the path of falling molten metal. Feanor relived that brief second, over and over again, as his son’s hand began to burn and that terrifying scent of burning flesh pervaded the room, a smell that he would now never forget...

Feanor rounded on Maedhros. “What possessed you to think that was a good idea? You could have— If that fell on you, you could have _died_!”

Maedhros coughed, posture curled around his wounded left hand. “I—”

Feanor took a deep breath, and pulled Maedhros’ hand out to inspect it. The burnt flesh was almost too much for Feanor to look at, and his breaths came faster, panic rising, as he realized that he had absolutely no idea how to deal with this situation. Minor burns were alright. He had dealt with those before, on others, as he had never been burned himself. But now, he didn’t know what to do, and Feanor hatedthis feeling, this lack of control, this helplessness in the face of his son’s excruciating pain—

Two of his apprentices, Feanor recalled, had training in the application of medicine. He barked out an order to them to help his son, barely even able to hear himself speak.

Then Maedhros let out a sob, once, and something within Feanor, whatever had been holding him together, broke.

He strode out of the room as fast as he could, hyperventilating, panic spiraling in his brain. He needed to clear his mind, needed to think, needed to get away from this situation where he had almost lost someone else because of his own folly, as if draining his own mother’s life hadn't been enough...

He headed to the practice fields.

* * *

Feanor snapped out of the memory, mulling over the experience.

He remembered well how the rest of that day had progressed. Nerdanel had been the one to find him outside, hacking at a training dummy with one of his cheap practice swords. She had counseled him to have patience. Her usual, marble-smooth tone of voice had done much to comfort him.

“You must learn to bend and not break, Feanaro,” she had said. “You are sharp, like your swords, but you are brittle. You shouldn’t snap so easily.”

Maedhros’ old injury had long since healed, and he had since acquired much more dire ones. Nevertheless, the memory of that first time he could have lost one of his sons… it was a harsh reminder of what Feanor had been lacking, what he’d tried to make up for through sheer confidence. The only other time he’d come so close to losing one of his sons was during… the burning of the ships… 

No, he would not think about that. Not now.

As Curufin and Finrod made their back to the tent where the Maedhros of the present lay broken and unconscious, Feanor screwed his eyes shut and tried not to remember the smell of burning flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of notes today!
> 
> The part about Maedhros and the harp was actually supposed to be shown a bit earlier, as it tells the origin story of Maglor’s harp, which Fingon used in his daring escapade to the cliffs of Thangorodrim. Fingon hasn’t connected the dots between the molten iron incident and the harp Maglor gave him, but Maglor knows, and it’s part of the reason he gave Fingon that harp in the first place. That harp is a symbol of Maedhros’ love for not just Maglor, but also Fingon.
> 
> Anyways, the story of Maedhros and the harp was written to be a chapter all on its own, but I’ve decided to combine it with Finrod and Curufin’s talk, so we have an especially long chapter today. Thank you for reading, and have a wonderful day, everyone!
> 
> On another note, I originally decided to include a small amount of corporal punishment in this and the previous chapter because such practices were indeed prevalent in earlier days in certain cultures, and have appeared in many other works published in around the same era as the Silmarillion. Take, for example, the scene with Danny’s teacher in the book “Danny, the Champion of the World” by Roald Dahl (which is an amazing kid’s story, by the way). Though it seems terrible in the modern era, a very small amount of spontaneous corporal punishment fits in with what I view to be Noldor culture. I myself am not unfamiliar with the experience, and can confirm that in certain cases, it does not diminish one’s trust of that person at all. In any case, please note that I do not mean to condone such practices. Keep in mind that I am writing a work of fiction here.
> 
> Additional Note: However, as discussed in the newly added end notes for the last chapter, you have all convinced me that these additions don’t accurately portray my view of the Feanorians, and I now completely agree. I am removing those vestiges of violence. Once again, thank you so much for your input, dear readers, and I hope you continue to enjoy this fic!


	21. A Simple Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor, Idril, and Celebrimbor return to the Fingolfinian settlement. Some things have changed, but some things are still the same.

“ _Show me Kanafinwe.”_

Maglor and Celebrimbor, Feanor saw, had successfully collected Idril and were on their way back to camp. Celebrimbor’s side wound had been judged superficial, though he sometimes winced and prodded at it. Although they had removed the spike of wood from Idril’s foot and wrapped the wound with Maglor’s wristband, Maglor judged it best to carry her rather than letting her walk on her injured foot. 

Feanor assumed they were headed to the healing quarters, so that Celebrimbor and Idril could receive proper treatment, and Maglor the opportunity to gather the rest of the Feanorians— barring Maedhros, of course— and leave the settlement. It was well past time for them to head home.

The sun had not yet fully set. Orange rays from the evening sky cast dark shadows around them as they made their way back through the Fingolfinian camp.

As they crossed the western courtyard, they passed by the boy from earlier, sitting in the doorway of a nearby building. The boy saw them and leapt to his feet in a frantic rush, although he did take care to place his book aside without crumpling the pages.

“Itarille! And Telperinquar! Thank the Valar— I _knew_ your trip was a bad idea! Are you both alright?”

Celebrimbor smiled and nodded.

Itarille laughed. “I’m fine, ‘cause Telpe kept me safe!”

The boy raised an eyebrow at her. “Fine? What about your bandaged foot?”

Itarille gestured for Maglor to put her down. She landed on the foot without the bandages, balancing expertly in the way of a practiced dancer. Then she lowered her other foot so that the ball of her foot touched the ground, making sure to stay off the heel where her injury was located. Having finished that, she threw her hands above her head in a dramatic pose of victory.

“Tada! See, perfectly fine.”

Then her arms fell to her sides, and she looked at Maglor sheepishly.

“Except I think I’ll still need you to carry me, Uncle Makalaure. I might be able to stand like this, but I don’t want to try walking.”

Maglor grumbled good-naturedly and lifted her back up. Meanwhile, though, Feanor noticed something strange. The boy had seemed startled at the sound of Maglor’s name, and now anxiety played on his face, as if he were steeling himself for bad news.

“So you _are_ Lord Makalaure Feanarion?” he asked, cautious.

Idril’s eyes darted between the boy and Maglor, then she raised a hand to her mouth in surprise.

“Oh, of course!” whispered Idril. “Uncle Makalaure might know whether…”

Maglor raised an eyebrow, but he answered the boy’s question.

“That is my name, yes.”

The boy took in a deep breath and let his words fall out in a rush.

“Is… is the lady Arienwe still alive and in your service?”

Maglor’s brow rose even higher, if possible. “She is. Is there a reason you ask?”

The boy’s whole face burst into a smile. He stifled it immediately with a fair amount of success, but glimpses of the smile kept returning to his expression as he spoke.

“Okay. Okay, um, I— I have a favor to ask of you. Lord Makalaure, would you be able to convey a message to her for me, to meet me at the gates to this settlement tomorrow at noon?”

“And why would I do that?” Maglor replied with a frown. “Who _are_ you, to ask something like this of my guard captain?”

The boy didn’t answer, choosing instead to look at his shoes. In return, Maglor stared at the boy for a full minute. No one moved. Then a flash of realization hit Maglor hard enough to make him flinch. Maglor gasped, and the boy looked aside as Maglor spoke.

“You— you’re Arienwe’s son!”

The boy nodded.

“But that’s… Where’s your father?! She told me she left you with him… You should be in Valinor!”

“My father’s dead.” The boy’s tone was matter-of-fact, emotionless. “He died about half of the way into our journey across the Ice.”

Maglor brought a hand to his face, covering his eyes for just a second.

“You crossed the… and…! I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s alright,” the boy said with a shrug. “I have long since made my peace with it. I would just like to see my mother, and decide if I would prefer to stay here with Ektelion and my friends in the Fingolfinian camp, or…”

“Or live with your mother again. Yes… yes, I think I understand.”

“Oh, also,” The boy stared straight at Maglor again, and his green eyes flashed with some nameless emotion. “Please don’t tell my mother I’m here yet. It’s going to be a terrible shock for her; I think I should be the one to break the news. So if I could meet her tomorrow at noon, in front of the settlement gates...”

“Understood. I’ll make sure she’s there to meet you. You have my word.”

The boy nodded, serious.

“Thank you, Lord Makalaure.”

“It’s no problem,” Maglor said, but he stood as if a new weight had been added to the burden gradually wearing him down.

The boy turned to Idril.

“Itarille, I’m going to tell Lord Turukano where you’ve been.”

Idril launched into a protest, but the boy’s stern gaze caused her to fall silent and he sighed, exasperated.

“Really, Itarille, how else are you going to explain your foot?”

Idril once again opened her mouth to form an excuse, but the boy cut her off, businesslike.

“Don’t even attempt to answer that. In any case, I’ll take some of the blame, so you won’t have to worry too much. I’ll inform your father that you’re in the healing quarters. That _is_ where you’re headed, correct?”

Itarille nodded, embarrassed, and the boy started back to the building he had been waiting in, presumably to gather his notes and the book he had been reading.

“I’ll see you in a bit, Itarille. Oh, and it was wonderful meeting you, Telperinquar. I don’t know exactly what happened to you both outside the settlement, but... thank you for keeping Itarille safe. I owe you.”

Celebrimbor grinned at that, actually grinned, and some of the shadows that had marred his gaze since his father snapped at him began to fall away.

The boy reached the doorway, and Maglor seemed to realize that he was missing some information.

“Wait!” Maglor called out. “I’m… truly sorry, but I seem to have forgotten. What’s your name?”

The boy turned around from the doorway, with the book titled “The Art of Negotiation,” tucked under his elbow and a stack of parchment paper in his hand.

“My name?” he said, with a slight air of bewilderment. “I never introduced myself?”

Itarille’s glittering laugh rang out again, and Celebrimbor shook his head, still smiling. 

“You never told _me_ your name either, you know,” Celebrimbor said. “I think you were about to, but the conversation moved on too quickly.”

“My apologies for the lapse of decorum!” the dark-haired boy exclaimed, although his eyes blazed, contrite expression seeming to belie a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue.

"In any case, my name is Erestor.”

* * *

The boy— Erestor— left to accomplish his task, and Maglor’s group headed to the healing quarters. After the children’s wounds were seen to, Maglor and Celebrimbor said their farewells to Idril. Idril’s smile glowed. Contrary to Feanor’s expectations, she seemed happier now than she had been before the whole excursion and perilous encounter.

“Thank you Telpe!” she exclaimed. “That was really fun! Well, other than the part where the orcs were after us, but even _that_ part wasn’t so bad in the end. We should totally do that again sometime!”

Celebrimbor shook his head, trying to contain his laughter as Maglor raised an eyebrow at her in pure disbelief.

“Please don’t,” Maglor said, deadpan. 

Idril scowled at him playfully before waving goodbye.

Celebrimbor and Maglor made their way over to the main infirmary building in companionable silence.

There seemed to be some sort of commotion occurring near the back of the building, at the end of the main hallway. Surprised whispers and glances directed towards that area further cemented the sense of anticipation, that something important was happening. In fact, the commotion seemed to center around one room in particular.

Celebrimbor frowned. “That’s— isn’t that Uncle Nelyo’s room?”

All the color drained from Maglor’s face.

“Nelyo!”

He took off down the hallway, Celebrimbor following as closely as he could.

Those few seconds sent Feanor into a numb shock that was becoming almost familiar at this point. After the healers had said Maedhros would live, after all the trials Feanor’s eldest had faced, after all this time, if Maedhros was _dead_ —

Maglor shoved past an unfortunate healer and burst into Maedhros’ room. As he made his entrance, everyone in the room turned to look at him.

Everyone, including the person lying on the bed.

Maedhros’ slate-blue eyes seemed hazy, but they were open, and he was _moving_. It wasn’t possible, it was far too soon, but he was— he was _awake_!

Maglor gaped as Maedhros shifted his emaciated form into a better position on the tan pillows.

“Hello, Makalaure,” said Maedhros in a pleasant, conversational tone. “Everyone else has refused; they keep telling me this world is real, but I know _you’ll_ see sense.”

“Makalaure, would you be able to wake me up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros is awake! I can’t believe I’ve actually written this much: I was originally planning on stopping this a while ago. However, each time I came back here, I decided to continue, and I've been doing my best to keep to the weekly update schedule since then. Thank you, everyone, for the support!
> 
> Meanwhile, we’ve finally gotten to Erestor’s reveal. Congrats to SemperViridis for correctly guessing his identity from the few clues I threw out there :). I actually have a full history planned out for Erestor. However, he’s not the focus of this specific tale, so I will have to cover his adventures in another fic. I do like his character concept though, and I think Feanor would approve of him, so he’ll almost certainly be around in this fic. Just maybe not as a main character.
> 
> Confused about who exactly Erestor is? Wondering why you don’t remember him from the Silmarillion? Don’t worry, I was in your shoes once; so here’s some relevant info. Erestor is not from the Silmarillion at all: he’s a character from the Lord of the Rings books themselves. He shows up in Rivendell as Elrond’s Chief Counsellor.
> 
> And if you do already know about Erestor, then you’re probably aware that not much is known about his backstory. There is a theory that his name was originally supposed to mean “Kinsman,” as he was supposed to be related to Elrond. Tolkien later scrapped this, but I found myself liking the idea, and so I’ve put him in as a distant relation to Elrond on the non-royal side. In this fic, Erestor’s father was Anaire’s nephew. In other words, Idril’s grandmother and Erestor’s grandfather are siblings. Idril, of course, is still Elrond’s grandmother, so that means Erestor’s great-grandparents are Elrond’s great great great grandparents. :)
> 
> Why place Erestor in this specific part of the family tree? Because it makes him a noble, but not a royal (so he doesn’t fall in the line of succession), and it also keeps him as a full Noldor while still allowing him to be related to Elrond. If you haven’t guessed yet, I like complicated genealogies :).


End file.
